


The Wisteria Tree

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coma, First Times, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, POV: Sherlock, Romance, post-series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 14:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8450749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: Sherlock wakes up from a month-long coma only to discover that he has no memory of the previous six years to his own shock as well as John's...





	

**The Wisteria Tree**

 

The sound of the monitors is the first thing he hears upon waking. Sounds come first, then awareness. Voices in the distance, echoing corridors, indistinct murmurings, announcements made over a loudspeaker. A hospital, then. He is in a hospital. Closer to hand are the sounds of the machines surrounding him. So: he has been ill in some way. A search of his recent memory brings nothing whatsoever to mind. After a few, fruitless minutes of this, Sherlock finally opens his eyes. 

The walls are grey-green depending on how the filtered afternoon sunlight is hitting them. About three in the afternoon, Sherlock guesses, registering dimly that the light is painfully bright. His body is attached to cords, machines, an IV drip taped to his right arm, an oxygen monitor clipped to his middle finger. In the corner of the room, John is dozing in a chair, his face propped up on his elbow, his mouth slightly open. (John. The sight of him brings a wave of unexpectedly warm sentiment, strong enough to confuse him. That’s dangerous: John went back to Mary… a few weeks ago, was it? After Christmas. After Magnussen. No point allowing himself to wish for the unattainable.) Sherlock clears his throat and attempts to speak briskly. “John.” 

His voice cracks, his throat dry, as though he hasn’t spoken in a long time. It’s barely audible, yet John jerks awake instantly, his eyes flying open, his face coming alive. He’s on his feet in an instant. “Sherlock! Oh my God!” He’s there at the bed rails, his face impossibly warm, more open than it usually is. He takes Sherlock’s right hand into both of his. (Checking his pulse? Sherlock wonders. It seems strangely, overly affectionate for John.) “How do you feel?” John asks. 

“Thirsty,” Sherlock manages, the word coming out in a whisper. 

“Oh, of course – ” John moves hastily away to get him some water. He brings a cup to the bed and helps Sherlock sit up, his hands gentler and more tender than they’ve ever been before and Sherlock, despite everything else, is confused by it. He drinks and John helps him settle again. “You’ve been out of it for awhile,” John tells him, his eyes full of – what? They’re soft, somehow, and yet full of worry, too.

He looks different. Both older, but also gentler, as though he’s experienced some vast source of joy that’s worn down his harder edges, made him more relaxed and easygoing. Well, that’s likely the fact that Mary took him back, Sherlock surmises, sighing internally. It was nice having John home again these past six months or so, but he always knew he would leave again, eventually. “How long have I been asleep?” Sherlock asks. He moves his arms and finds them weak. Distressingly so. 

John’s hesitation confirms his fears, yet his words are nonetheless shocking. “Almost a month,” he says, and now Sherlock understands the lines around his eyes, or thinks he does. “You got bashed in the head by a steel bar on a naval ship during an investigation. They think your brain is all right, but – ”

“A month!” Sherlock is stuck a few words back and can’t help interrupting. He rubs at his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “God, I’ve missed that much time?” An unfamiliar weight catches his attention, a glint of gold on his left hand. He frowns. “What’s this?” he asks, meaning the ring on his fourth finger. “Did someone put this on me as a joke?” 

He sees a wave of shocked hurt pummel John in the face and doesn’t understand. John blinks for several seconds, obviously collecting himself, then says, equally obviously keeping his voice calm and steady, “Wait. Just – let’s back up a minute. What year is it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock has to think. “2014,” he says. The shock on John’s face deepens and Sherlock realises immediately that this is wrong. No, of course – the New Year happened in there, just after Magnussen. “No, 2015,” he says. “Though if I’ve been out of it, I’m not precisely sure of the month – ”

John looks down and shakes his head, the lines between his eyebrows deep and full of pain, pain that Sherlock is still at a loss to comprehend. “No, Sherlock,” he says, his voice thick. “It’s the year 2021. It’s the twenty-fifth of February, 2021.” 

Shock hits like a wall. “2021 – ” He can barely say the number, the breath sucked out of his lungs as though he’s been punched in the gut. 

John studies him, the same pain etched into every line on his face. “There was a good deal of worry that you might have sustained serious memory loss with your brain injury,” he says softly. “I see they were right.” 

Sherlock feels so lost he does not even know where to begin. “John…” He turns his eyes to John’s, silently imploring him to do something, help him, help it make sense. This time, John can’t help, though. He gazes back at Sherlock in mute misery that reflects Sherlock’s own, swallowing visibly. 

“And you and I have been married for the past five and a half years,” he adds quietly. 

Sherlock is reeling. “ _Married?!”_ You and I!” John nods and Sherlock looks at his ring again. “So this isn’t a joke,” he says stupidly, understanding John’s wince now. “But – when did that – when did we – ?”

“August 2015,” John tells him, his throat tight. “It was our fifth anniversary last summer.” He puts his face into his hands, obviously in pain, and Sherlock wishes to hell that he had the first clue about any of this. 

He doesn’t know what to say. “You left Mary, then,” he says stupidly. Stupid. Obvious. Of course he must have. And then John must have actually felt something for him, something Sherlock had never even let himself begin to hope he felt, keeping his own feelings buried as far down as he could shove them, vowing to take the secret with him to his grave. The fact of his memory loss is breaking over him now, somehow secondary to the shock of discovering his marriage. Six years, roughly. He’s lost track of that much time. 

He risks a look at John to find that he’s struggling, his eyes wet. He doesn’t answer the question about Mary. Instead, he says, his voice clouded, “Let me go and find your doctor.” He hurries out of the room before Sherlock can say anything, his hands both going up to his eyes as he leaves. 

Sherlock sags back against the raised bed, trying to make sense of this, but he cannot even discern what his most recent memory is. He thinks of the uncharacteristic tenderness of John’s touch and thinks of what he must have missed in five years of marriage and whatever led up to it, and hates that he currently possesses not a single shred of knowledge of it. 

He struggles to get himself out of bed on extremely wobbly legs and makes his way to the bathroom. It’s true: he can see the years on his face, in the fine lines around his eyes and the grey at his temples. He’s in need of a hair cut, but someone (John?) has remembered how much he hates having stubble and has kept his face shaved closely. Sherlock stares at himself in the mirror and tries to come to terms with the facts. He has lost six years of time. And possibly John with it – John, whom he never knew he’d won in the first place. The weight of the ring is heavy and strangely comforting on his fourth finger. He grapples his way back to bed, using everything within reach for support, and hauls himself back into it. 

The doctors come, John trailing after, a soft, unhappy shadow behind them. Sherlock tries to answer their questions, is wheeled down the corridor for a CT scan and then an MRI, his legs still too weak to walk after his month of unconsciousness. There are questions and more questions. It turns out that, for reasons beyond anyone’s understanding, Sherlock’s memory leaves off roughly two weeks into January 2015. The entire revelation, the whole process is so bewildering that for once in his life, Sherlock finds himself wordless, unable to take it all in. John is there with him throughout, and when he sees how lost Sherlock is, he takes over. 

“Will he get his memory back?” he asks, the tension in his voice controlled but quite evident. 

The doctors all look at one another and hedge, saying only that it’s _possible_ , but no one wants to commit further than that. 

“How long could it take?” John persists. 

The one with the glasses clears his throat. “Well – frankly, Doctor Watson, it could take a week or two, a month or two, a year or two, or – well, never. There’s just no telling at this point.” 

“John,” Sherlock says, unaware that he was going to say it. His voice is unsteady and he realises that he is completely overwhelmed. 

John reacts immediately. “Thank you,” he says firmly. “He needs a break. If you wouldn’t mind.” 

It’s not a request and they don’t take it as one, filing obediently out of Sherlock’s room. John goes to the door and closes it. Sherlock gets himself out of the wheelchair with difficulty and transfers himself to a chair. The vinyl covering sticks to his back through the open slit of the hospital gown and it’s cold. He finds he is trembling. 

John comes back and drags the other chair over, facing him. He moves as though to take Sherlock’s hands where they’re lying in his lap, then changes his mind and puts his hands in his own lap instead. “You must be completely overwhelmed by this,” he says, his voice full of compassion. “I don’t blame you. I would be, too.” 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. “My life,” he says blankly. “The past six years. I don’t have the first idea what’s happened.” 

“I can fill you in on all of that,” John says. “I’m here, Sherlock. I’m not going anywhere, no matter – ” He stops, looking both confused and awkward, and Sherlock doesn’t understand this, either. 

“No matter – what?” he asks, feeling his brows draw together. 

John sighs and looks down, then crosses his legs, withdrawing visibly. “Look,” he says. “I’ve – I’ve got very used to having a certain level of relationship with you and it’s – I can’t tell you what a staggering blow it is to suddenly find out that you now know nothing of any of that, that all of our memories are memories that only I have now. That for you, none of that ever happened. I’ve essentially just lost my husband and lover of the past five years and it’s going to take me a bit to adjust to that. It’s not your fault, not in any way whatsoever. But no matter how hard it might be for me, none of what _I_ feel has changed, and I’ll be here for you through thick and thin, even… even if you don’t want that from me any more. Or… now, rather. This version of you, from back then. I don’t even know what you felt then, if anything…” John trails off again, shaking his head. “Fuck, Sherlock – this is horribly confusing. All I’m trying to say is that I’m here for you. I’ll help you piece it all together.” 

Sherlock doesn’t know how to start unpacking this, either. “This version of me,” he says, repeating the words. “Have I changed so much in six years?” 

Surprisingly, a smile flashes across John’s features before he seems to be aware of it. “Oh yes,” he says. “Incredibly, Sherlock.” He looks up and into Sherlock’s eyes, and they’re full of affection in a way that Sherlock has never seen before, or thinks he hasn’t. The affection is overlying the pain dimming the blue of John’s eyes, and Sherlock is suddenly desperate to know how this could have happened, that John actually married him. 

“Tell me,” he says, his voice sounding rather plaintive. “How did it happen, John? How on earth did you ever decide to marry me? _Me?”_

“Oh, that was easy,” John says, the smile returning rather sadly. “By then it was the most obvious thing in the world. We got engaged in April 2015 and married in August. The twelfth.”

Sherlock boggles at this. “In April?” he repeats blankly, meaning the engagement. “But – _how_ , John? You went back to Mary. The baby – what about the baby?” 

“There was no baby, in the end,” John tells him. Sherlock looks closely but there is no pain in John’s eyes over this. “It was just another lie,” he goes on matter-of-factly. “Things ended pretty quickly when that came out. I moved back into Baker Street the third week of January.” His face clouds over again. “Right about where your memory loss begins, it would seem.” 

“John – ” This fact hurts, quite a lot, in fact. “It can’t have anything to do with you. You know they said there’s no way of knowing why.” Sherlock struggles. “There’s no reason for me to have blocked that in particular, to have blocked _you_. Because I did, you know – I did feel something then. If I sound stunned it’s because I was still thinking that you’d gone back to Mary – and that there was no way you could have ever wanted something like this – not in a million years!” 

John’s eyes are wet again. “I know,” he says thickly. “I know you thought that.” He gets up and crosses the room for a tissue, blowing his nose with his back to Sherlock. 

Sherlock watches him, feeling helpless. Perhaps the subject of their apparent relationship is too much for John to discuss right now. He supposes he can understand that this is as large a shock for John as it is for him. But there is still so much which is a complete blank. “Tell me about something else,” he requests quietly. “Am I still working? Do you still come along on investigations or are you working in a clinic somewhere? Do we still live at Baker Street? What about everyone else? My parents – ”

John blows his nose again and comes back to his chair, rubbing sanitizer onto his palms. “Your parents are fine,” he says, going into firmly-reassuring mode. “Mycroft is fine, too. Nothing new there. You two get along slightly better than you used to, but you get along with everyone better than you used to. Yes, we still work. Greg’s retiring next month. Molly got married to a Dutch chap named Pieter and they have twins who are two now. He’s not a psychopath and you actually rather like him. Mary and I haven’t been in contact since I left her, and that’s fine with me.” He hesitates, and Sherlock hears the omission. 

“And Mrs Hudson?” he asks. 

Without thinking, John reaches over and does take his hands now, with both of his. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he says, his voice very, very gentle. “She died two years ago. I didn’t want to tell you, but of course you don’t remember. It happened quickly. She got hit by a car crossing the road and broke her leg, and then she just went downhill terribly quickly in the hospital. She got pneumonia and died three weeks later.” 

Sherlock’s throat is tight and he is afraid to blink. He opens his mouth but finds he cannot speak, or even breathe. 

“It’s all right,” John says softly, his face so beautiful that it hurts. “I don’t mind if you cry. We cried together before, when it happened.” 

“John – ” His throat still hurts too much to say anything else, but John lets go of his hands and leans forward, putting his arms around him and holding him for a long time. Tears stream over Sherlock’s face in hot profusion and he thinks that he didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. Not one that he remembers, at least. He has to ask. “Did I have a chance to say goodbye?” he asks, the question choked. He registers dimly the feeling of having John’s arms around him again and wishes it were happening some other time, so that he could focus on it, on committing it to memory. 

“Yes,” John says, his arms tightening. “We were there with her. You didn’t leave her side once for the entire last week, and I was there most of the time, too. You literally slept in a chair beside her bed. We were holding her hands as she died. And you gave her eulogy at the funeral, and made everyone cry.”

Eventually the tears spend themselves and the tightness in his throat eases a little, and Sherlock pulls away, wiping his face. John – to his surprise – presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, then gets up to get the box of tissues. The warmth of the brief kiss lingers on Sherlock’s face.

John comes back and gives Sherlock the box, sitting down and leaning back in the chair, avoiding his eyes. “Sorry,” he says stiffly. “I didn’t mean to – habit and all that.” He’s muttering, apologetic, and Sherlock wonders how stupid it would sound to tell a man he’s apparently been married to for over five years now how inordinately special the tiny gesture felt. Evening has deepened in the room, meanwhile, the visitors’ parking lot outside emptying. They were given something to eat, both of them. Sherlock doesn’t remember having tasted it, too busy being asked dozens of questions to which he did not possess the answers. “Are you sleepy at all?” John asks, reverting to doctor mode. 

Sherlock recognises this as a defense mechanism. John always gets brisk when he’s trying to mask something. Once that might have been a relief; emotional outbursts were never Sherlock’s forte. Now he finds he prefers John’s pain, somehow. “No,” he says shortly. “I’ve slept far too much lately.” He opens his mouth, reconsiders, then decides to ask it anyway. “Are you tired? Or – would you – ”

“Yes?” John asks when he stops. “What is it? I mean, the answer is yes, regardless, but – ask anyway.” 

Sherlock finds this rather touching. “Would you stay with me?” he requests. “Just – talk to me. Tell me everything I’m missing now. I want to know every detail.”

John gazes back at him, his pewter-blue eyes sombre. Then he nods. “All right. But let’s get out of this depressing room. I’ve been living here, night and day for the past month.” 

“Where can we go?” Sherlock asks. “Cafeteria? I suppose it will be closed…”

“Actually, there’s one counter that stays open until nine-thirty,” John tells him. He checks his watch. “It’s just after nine. If we go down now, we can get a cup of tea before they close. They won’t kick us out. Trust me, I’ve spent a bit of time down there recently…” He clears his throat. “Are you cold?” he asks, practical as ever. “I know those gowns don’t exactly provide much warmth.” 

“I am, a bit,” Sherlock admits. 

John looks around the room, then goes to his overnight bag and digs out his well-worn old beige jumper and brings it over. “It’s not precisely your style, but it will keep you warm,” he says, a bit dryly. 

Sherlock smiles awkwardly and pulls it over his head. The jumper smells exactly like John and he loves it instantly. As well, it’s satisfyingly warm and comfortable and he sees at once why John always liked it so much. “Thank you,” he says. 

John just smiles a little and says, “Come on, let’s take the wheelchair. It’s a bit of a walk. Tomorrow we’ll get you up and moving, get your legs back into shape, but for now let’s take it easy.” He bends forward without waiting and lifts Sherlock under his arms, transferring him to the chair as though he weighs nothing at all. 

“Have I lost weight?” Sherlock asks, the joke rather feeble. He makes himself let go of John’s arms. 

He was hoping to make John smile, but it doesn’t work. Lines come into his brow again and his eyes droop at the corners. “Habit, again,” he says, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “I’ve… had some practise moving you. As you have with me.” He straightens up, putting more space between then. “Cafeteria it is,” he says, brisk again, moving around to the back of the chair. 

He wheels Sherlock down long corridors and into a lift, descending several floors to the basement, or perhaps even a sub-basement. Sherlock discovers that he is appallingly uninterested in these details. The larger things are that matter. It’s one of the first times in his life that he’s thought so clearly about priorities in a situation where someone’s life wasn’t actively at stake. 

John buys them two cups of tea, adds sugar to one and milk to both, then helps Sherlock out of the wheelchair and into a hard plastic cafeteria chair instead, then goes to sit across from him. They are the only people in the cafeteria, save the kitchen staff doing final clean-ups behind closed doors. “So,” John says quietly. “Where do we begin?” 

Sherlock takes his time responding. “There’s… so much I need to know,” he says slowly. “But the thing that matters most to me right now is – us. Can I ask? Maybe you don’t want to talk about it, but – how did it come about? How did I – who said what, who acted first? When did we know it was going to happen?” He stops, scanning John’s face. “Maybe you don’t want to talk about it yet,” he says again. 

John shakes his head, looking down at his tea. “It’s not that. I’m – I’m proud of our history, Sherlock. It’s just – God, I can’t even tell you how hard it is to have lost it. You were – you _are_ everything to me. And now, not even knowing if this you even wants that – ”

“I do,” Sherlock interrupts him firmly. “I did then, John.” John has to understand this. “I didn’t – I never thought it was a possibility. I never would have brought it up – and yet I must have, or you must have. But I did want it. I _do_ want it, now. I still do. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do now, but I still want it.” He studies John’s troubled face. “You leaving Mary must have given me some sort of hope,” he tries. “But – you’ll have to tell me the rest, John. I just can’t remember.” 

John looks up quickly then, meeting his eyes. “Of course,” he says, nodding now. His voice gets gentler as he repeats it, softer. “Of course.” He glances up, almost as though he’s nervous to look too deeply into Sherlock’s face. “You mean that,” he says uncertainly. “You really did want this, even back then.” 

“I really did,” Sherlock says. “It took me until the wedding to see it fully, to actually grasp what it was that I felt, but – I did. I do.” He leans forward, sliding his palms across the table and touches the tips of his fingers to John’s where they’re wrapped tightly around his paper cup of tea. “Please tell me. I don’t care if it takes all night. How did it start?”

John contemplates for a long minute, then takes a deep breath and says, “You’re right: it started when I moved back in. Not immediately. But right from the start it was different than it had been all that time before Christmas, when I was just staying to look after you while I tried to sort out what to do about my marriage. This time, we both knew it was for good, and that changed everything. You never asked and I never said, but we both knew absolutely that I was never going to leave again, that there weren’t going to be any more girlfriends or wives. We just got closer and closer. We’d touch each other casually all the time. You’d lean your shoulder into me when you’d made a joke, prompting me to laugh. I went out of my way to find excuses to touch you. Anything worked: bit of fluff in your hair, dust on the shoulder of your jacket, whatever. There was a day when we got home from a case laughing our arses off because a client spilled a latte on my jacket and for some reason it was hilarious to us at the time. We got into the house and you ripped my jacket off in the sitting room, yanked my shirt off over my head and ordered me to go and shower so that we could get on with ordering dinner. I very nearly jumped you on the spot, but something held me back.”

Sherlock is listening intently. “What was it?” he asks. “Why didn’t you?”

John shakes his head, then smiles, looking up at him. “Because it was bigger than that,” he says simply, blinking through his long lashes at him. “It was more than just a physical attraction, and the important stuff needed to come first.” He takes a sip of his tea and sets the cup down, his fingers easier on it now. “It only took a few more days after that. We were in the kitchen, getting in each other’s way, like always. Somehow we both went around the table at the same time and bumped into each other, hard enough that we both reached out to steady the other. I let go. You didn’t. It took me a second to catch on, but then I looked up and you had this odd look on your face. There was a moment where nothing happened, where all of a sudden it had got all quiet, both of us just looking at each other and you still holding onto my arms. And then you kissed me. And if you hadn’t, I would have kissed you. It just – happened. But you made the first move, my – ” John abruptly cuts himself off, dropping his gaze and clearing his throat again, the affectionate tone falling silent. 

Sherlock turns this over in his head, trying to imagine it, how it would have felt. He must have felt extremely sure of John by that point, if he’d actually instigated their first kiss, he thinks, marvelling at this. “ _I_ kissed _you_ ,” he repeats, just to hear it said out loud again. 

John smiles at him now, a flash of blue warmth. “You did,” he confirms. “There was a second of both of us going, ‘oh, are we doing this?’ and then we both just _knew_. We just stopped dancing it around it that day and started living what we’d both wanted. I mean, I was pretty sure by then that you did; we were both flirting pretty intensely by the time it finally happened. It was – organic. And once we stopped playing around it and started doing it, thanks to that kiss, it just never stopped. That kiss went on for a good forty minutes, just us, standing there in the kitchen with our arms so tight around each other that it was as though we were trying to fuse ourselves together. Once we both knew it was safe to stop keeping the secret, we could finally be free about it, and we were. That whole evening was incredibly special, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock is almost embarrassed to ask, but he needs to know this rather badly. “Did we – ?” 

John knows immediately what he’s asking. “Not that night,” he says, sparing Sherlock having to say it. “That night, all we did was talk and kiss and talk some more and kiss some more. We moved to the sofa after awhile and you told me how jealous you’d been of Mary and how you’d never been with anyone before, never really kissed anyone. I asked about Irene and Janine and you laughed at me. Nicely.” His face is relaxed now. “We didn’t the next night, either, and finally on the third day you brought it up.” 

Heat rushes to Sherlock’s cheeks. “I did?” he asks, privately cringing. (Oh, God!)

John is smiling. “Oh yes,” he assures Sherlock. “We were snogging on the sofa after dinner – again – and I could tell that you were aroused but I’d been trying to go slowly since I knew you hadn’t done any of that before. But you finally asked how long I was going to make you wait, so I explained, and you told me then that you’d been waiting for forty-two years and couldn’t wait another day longer and to please, _please_ take you to bed before you died of unsatisfied lust.” 

Sherlock covers his face with his hands, digging his fingers into his hair. “Oh, _God_ ,” he says aloud this time. 

“Don’t be embarrassed,” John tells him, smiling nicely. “At the time, it was perfect! I was harder than anything and trying so damned hard to be a gentleman about the whole thing and you just made it easier for both of us. And it was great, you know. Lots of couples’ first times aren’t that good, but our first time was amazing.” 

Sherlock’s face is still hot. “Was I – how was – ” He can’t quite get the mortifying question out, yet is dying of curiosity. 

“You were – impatient,” John says, his mouth twitching. “Almost pushy, but I realised pretty quickly that it was only because you were a bit nervous. But from the very beginning you knew exactly how to touch me, exactly what would make me feel good. You’re a very good lover, Sherlock. We have – or have had, at least – a very, very satisfying sex life.” 

Sherlock is still embarrassed to be discussing it at all. “What – ” he stops and coughs delicately. “What – have we done, precisely?” 

John leans forward a bit conspiratorially, despite the empty cafeteria. “There’s not much we haven’t done, to be frank. And you’re every bit as adventurous as I am, and very nearly always up for it, so to speak.” 

This is as intriguing as it is mortifying. “Have we engaged in – er, penetrative sex?” Sherlock asks, nearly dying as he asks it. 

John’s tone is easy now. “Oh, yes,” he assures Sherlock. “Both ways, though I top slightly more frequently. We’ve done that many, many, many times. Far more than I could ever count.” He looks over and smiles after a moment. “You’re beet-red, you know,” he says, but he says this kindly, too. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, drinking about half of his tea at once and avoiding John’s eyes. “I – this is a rather unusual way to discover one’s own sexual history. I can’t tell you how desperately frustrating it is to have no memory of it.” 

John looks across at him for a long time, his mouth setting unhappily, but he doesn’t say anything, his eyes hooded. 

Sherlock sighs. “Go on,” he requests. “Tell me more. Did we tell everyone right away?” 

John nods. “We took a few days to keep it to ourselves, but then we more or less told people right away, yeah. Mrs Hudson, obviously. The neighbours. Lestrade and them. The staff at my clinic. Your family, and Harry, of course. We see your parents pretty often, actually. They got a puppy and you like to claim that that’s the only reason we see them so much, but your mother thinks it’s because you like showing me off to them.” 

Sherlock smiles despite himself. “That’s probably true.” His thoughts move ahead. “What sort of wedding did we have?” 

John smiles immediately, thinking about it. “It was beautiful,” he says. “We invited about sixty people. It wasn’t huge. It was in August and there were flowers blooming everywhere. The weather was perfect – sunny, with a very blue sky and willows drooping into the lake outside. The food was divine – we splurged a bit there. We said it was going to be the first and/or last wedding either of us ever had, so we wanted a celebration that would do it justice. And there were swans.” 

“Swans!” Sherlock repeats. “What?” 

John is still smiling. “We hired a wedding planner,” he explains. “His name is Luca and he’s – rather flamboyant. He wanted to do absolutely everything completely over the top. You told him at one of the meetings, very gravely, that it might be nice to have swans at the reception. You were kidding, of course, but Luca apparently didn’t take it as a joke. So lo and behold, there was a flock of about twenty swans at the reception. The guests were a bit surprised, you could say, but you thought it was the funniest thing you’d ever seen. They’re in all of the photographs. I’ll show you. People still talk about it. They all think you did it on purpose, but I knew even at the time that it was a joke. Eventually a swan attacked someone and you made Luca round them all up and take them away, but you were nearly crying with laughter as you did it. It was one of the best parts of the entire wedding.” 

Sherlock shakes his head, bemused. “How odd. It does sound funny, though.” 

“You have to remember, you’ve changed a bit,” John tells him, the pain coming into his eyes again. “Being in love, being loved didn’t change who you are in any way. If anything, it just made you more who you already were. Your laugh was louder, your eyes brighter, your wit sharper and quicker. You were the life of every party and nicer to everybody. We have friends now, lots of them. People like you, and you like them. Your life is generally a whole lot happier than it ever was before. I know that, because it’s something you always tell me. And with me – you’ve been open and demonstrative and supportive. You’ve made me laugh until it hurt. We’ve told each other every secret we ever had. Every hurt, every insecurity, every story. You’ve loved every inch of my body, as I have yours. We’ve been best friends and partners and lovers and spouses and there were times when I would lie awake with you in my arms, unable to sleep because I couldn’t believe my own good fortune. There were times when we both did, when we didn’t even want to sleep because we didn’t want to miss a second of it.” 

Sherlock tries with all of his might to absorb this, the very thought of it somehow aching, aching because the self he knows now has still never experienced this. He feels helplessly enraged, jealous of the self he’s lost all memory of, the one who’s got to experience this with John, the strength and fire of love he’s describing that Sherlock hasn’t even dared hope could ever be possible for them. He’s had it – and without even the consolation of the memories, has lost it again. “It’s so horribly unfair that I can’t remember it,” he says, his throat choking him. 

“I know,” John says, his eyebrows making compassionate parentheses around his eyes. “I know, love.” This time he doesn’t curtail the endearment. He reaches for Sherlock’s hands and holds them. “And the thing is, I don’t know if we can find it again. We can try, though. I hope we will. We’d be starting at the beginning, but – it would be better than losing the entire thing. We can do the whole thing over again.”

His eyes are pained again and he doesn’t sound all that certain. “That doesn’t sound like much fun for you,” Sherlock points out. 

John shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, Sherlock. It matters much more to me that we find some semblance of our relationship again.” His eyes search Sherlock’s. “If you’re willing, then we’ll figure it out. Because we love each other, even if you don’t remember exactly how, but I can promise you that you do love me. I would stake my life on it. It’s just a fact. You love me and I love you, and that’s all there is to it.” 

“John – ” Sherlock’s voice is stuck in his throat. “I want that – that’s all I want, to find that again – ”

John gets up and comes around the table and sits down in the next chair. He puts his arms around Sherlock and holds him, and Sherlock returns the gesture clumsily, but definitely. They stay that way without moving for a long time, longer than Sherlock can count. 

Later, they go back upstairs to the room. John looks at the narrow hospital bed but doesn’t say anything about it. He helps Sherlock into it, squeezes his wrist and moves away. Sherlock privately wishes John would kiss him again, on the forehead or anywhere else, but he doesn’t. Instead, John takes off his jeans and shoes and gets into the other bed and wishes him goodnight. It’s past four by that time, but it doesn’t matter, Sherlock thinks. He means to stay awake, wanting to hear John sleep, but the shock of the day’s revelations catches up with frustrating speed and pulls him back into sleep. 

*** 

He wakes when a nurse comes by to check his vitals and ask him a series of questions obviously meant to test his mental capacities and memory. She is satisfied with his answers, though obviously the same six-year gap is there. 

“Just one last question, Mr Holmes,” she says, flipping a page on her chart. “Who is John Watson?” 

“My husband, apparently,” Sherlock tells her, looking over at the other bed, which is empty. “But I know this only because he tells me that I am, and I believe the evidence given.” 

She cocks an ear toward him, not understanding. “The evidence?” 

Sherlock lifts his left hand. “The fact that I am wearing a wedding band, as well as my pre-existing emotional attachment to him from six years ago.”

“Ah.” She nods, uncrosses her legs, and gets up. “Are you feeling all right? No pain anywhere?” 

“No pain.” 

“You’ll be starting some basic physiotherapy this morning, but we’re expecting that you’ll improve quickly. There’s nothing wrong with your muscles; it’s only disuse. Someone will come by to bring you over in about half an hour. You should be getting your breakfast any moment now.” 

“Just tea will do,” Sherlock says, but she isn’t having this. 

“It’s important to keep up your strength,” she says sternly, and leaves him alone. 

John arrives with breakfast, which he looks at dubiously, but he brings his tray over and puts it down on the bedside table next to Sherlock’s. “Morning,” he says, carefully neutral. 

Sherlock watches him buttering his toast and wonders what lies behind the mask today. “Hello,” he says. The tea is over-steeped. He puts all of the sugar packets they’ve given him into it as well as all of the milk and it’s still acrid with tannins. “How are you?” he asks after the first (disappointing) sip. 

John shrugs a little. “All right. Getting used to it, I guess.” He takes a bite of toast. “This is cold,” he says. “I was just talking to your mum. She’s coming by later. I told her you’ve got physio this morning.” 

Sherlock thinks of John simply ringing up his mother and having a chat. The way in which he says it makes it sound quite casual, as though it happens all the time. He supposes it must, now. He turns this over in his mind and discovers that he actually quite likes the thought of it. They steer clear of any heavy topics until they’ve finished eating. 

John takes out his phone and presses a button or two, and Sherlock’s phone pings. “I just sent you a video,” he says. “It’s not that long, but it’s from Greg’s last birthday and we’re in it. Sally took it, and I just remembered it this morning and thought it might give you an idea of how we were. You don’t have to watch it if you don’t want to, but – well, if you do, you’ve got it now. She’d sent it to me before and I’d kept it.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, equally careful. “I’ll watch it. I’m definitely curious.” They finish breakfast quietly and Sherlock has only just brushed his teeth and freshened up a little on still-wobbly legs when some medical person or other comes by to collect him for his appointment. 

“See you in a bit,” John tells him. “I’ll be here.” 

“Okay.” Sherlock lets the fetcher wheel him away and wishes John were coming with him. 

The appointment is fine. They give him a series of exercises to do and compliment him on the strength of his legs and his overall physical condition. “You should be fine within a day or two,” the trainer tells him. “You just need to start moving again. Luckily you were only out for a month or so. I’ve had coma patients who were out for years.” 

Lucky! But Sherlock does not comment on it. “Do I need to come again?” he asks. 

“No. You’re free to go, Mr Holmes. Just keep up with your exercises at home over the next few days. Speedy recovery.” 

Sherlock thanks him and they shake hands. The transport person comes back to return him to his room, but Sherlock asks him to take him somewhere else, somewhere quiet. The care person agrees and leaves him in a small lounge at the end of the corridor where his room is. It’s empty, and Sherlock takes his phone out of the pocket of his gown and, ignoring the reams of email and text notifications, finds the text from John with the video. 

It’s short, only three minutes long. There are a bunch of people standing around in a loose circle in Lestrade’s house. He and John are both there, next to each other, arms around each other’s waists in what looks like obvious comfort and familiarity. He marvels at his own face, looking relaxed and open and younger than he’s looked in years in spite of the grey at his temples. He’s laughing along with everyone else at something Lestrade said, then comes out with a light jibe at Lestrade that increases the laughter. John reprimands him, just saying his name, but Sherlock sees himself smirk and lean in, pressing his nose and lips into John’s cheek. “Prat,” John says, unable to continue to feign annoyance. The Sherlock in the video murmurs something inaudible, his arm around John’s shoulder now, face still pressed into John’s, possessive and sensual, and John responds by turning his face and kissing Sherlock full on the mouth right in front of everyone. “Oi, you two, get a room!” Donovan’s voice says, but even her tone is filled with uncharacteristic indulgence. The camera of the phone turns toward Lestrade, who lifts his glass and says something dry that produces yet more laughter. They all look so happy, but no one looks happier than he and John, Sherlock thinks. It’s as though there’s a ring of light surrounding the two of them in particular, enclosing them in their own, insular, joy-filled world. The camera pans around the circle, and as it passes them, he sees that the him in the video has stepped behind John now, both arms wrapped around John’s middle, his chin resting on John’s head. John’s hands are on his, their fingers slotted together any which way, leaning back into him in a way that suggests confident, casual possessiveness. It makes Sherlock feel strangely jealous to see it, as though he’s seeing someone else entirely there with John. The video ends and he sits there, holding the phone and thinking about it. He watches it four more times, committing every second of it to memory, memorising how confident he seems, every movement absolutely assured of its welcome and reciprocation, of his right of possession, and granting all the same in return to John. 

Sherlock’s chest aches and suddenly he cannot bear not being with John a moment longer. He wheels himself back to his room and stops in the doorway. John is standing at the window, his back to the door, shoulders slumped forward in dejection. His hands are shoved deeply into his pockets as he stares unseeingly out over the parking lot. Sherlock gets up, leaving the wheelchair in the corridor (he won’t need it any more) and crosses the room to the man whom a version of himself he does not remember married. He stops a little behind John and clears his throat. “I watched the video,” he says when John turns. “I – ” He moves closer. “I want to – to catch up to him, John. To the me I saw with you. I want to be him so badly. I want to have that with you again. For the first time for this me, but – I want to catch up to myself, John. If you’ll give me a chance, I’d like to try, at least. Please.”

John swallows. “There’s nothing I want more, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock hesitates, then goes to him. John takes him into his arms and holds him tightly, Sherlock’s arms around his shoulders, his face in John’s hair. “I want everything I saw there,” he says, the soft, silvering blond muffling his words. “I want to be that. I want us to be that again. I want – that level of intimacy, of familiarity. Of belonging to each other. It’s incredible to see it and I don’t know how we ever got there, but I want it so badly, John.”

John’s head is on his shoulder. “You’ll have it,” he vows, his voice rough. Sherlock thinks he may be crying. “We’ll find it again. We’ll just – start from the beginning and work our way back up.” 

“I’ll go as quickly as I can,” Sherlock promises. “I just don’t know how, don’t know what I’m doing.” His fingers are digging into John’s back like claws. “You have to show me how to do it, how to be him. If I could – do everything we’ve done in the past six years now, I’d do it. I just want to _get there_.” 

John shakes his head at this. “It won’t work that way,” he says, lifting his head to look at Sherlock soberly. He puts his left hand on Sherlock’s face, cradling his jaw. “It just doesn’t work like that. We’ll do everything in its proper time, when it needs to happen. Just because we’ve done all that before doesn’t mean this – version of you, for lack of a better word, has done any of it before. I get that. So we’ll get all the firsts again: our first kiss, our first time in bed, all of those various things. It won’t be the same as it was the first time, but we’ll just do it again. And I promise you that I’ll do my best not to get impatient, or to push you too quickly.” 

“I don’t care if you push me,” Sherlock says, meaning it. “I just want to catch up. Can’t we just – start?” 

John puts his head back down on his shoulder, his arms tightening again. “I know, my love. I feel the same way. But it doesn’t work this way. We’ll do it all again, but in its proper time. When it feels right. This you has never even held me like this before.”

It’s true. “It feels amazing,” Sherlock says, his voice low, the confession surprisingly easy to make. 

“It feels amazing because we were meant for each other,” John tells him, his own voice low and fierce. “We _were_ , Sherlock. You’re the only one there ever was for me, and I’m the only one there ever was for you.” 

“I know that,” Sherlock tells him, closing his eyes, rubbing his face in John’s soft hair again. “I knew that even now.”

*** 

Sherlock’s mother finds them that way some time later, still standing in the window with their arms around each other’s waists, heads leaned against one another’s, looking outside. 

“Hello, boys,” she says, and her tone is both relieved and sad. 

They let go of one another and turn around. “Mother,” Sherlock says, privately surprised by how glad he is to see her. 

She smiles at him. “I must say, it’s good to see you awake at last!” She comes over, but goes to John first. She doesn’t say anything, just pulls him into her arms and hugs him for a long time. 

After a bit, John lets go and touches his right eye. “I’ll go and get a coffee, give you two a few minutes on your own,” he tells her. He glances back at Sherlock, gives him a half-smile, and takes himself off. 

His mother comes over and hugs him then, too. “Oh, Sherlock,” she says softly, then holds him back at arm’s length. “You’re thinner. But otherwise you look wonderful.” She studies him, her blue eyes bright. “So it’s true, then? You don’t remember anything of the past six years?” They sit down, Sherlock in one of the visitors’ chairs, his mother in the other. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing. It was… a bit of a shock.”

“For John especially,” she says, almost sternly. 

Sherlock frowns. “For both of us,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t know we were together, much less _married_. Imagine waking up from a month in a coma and finding out that you were married and thinking it was a joke, because you’d never even been in a relationship of that nature. Not a real one, at least.” 

“I can’t imagine,” his mother says, sounding as though she means it. “I’m sorry, darling. What a shock. Has John filled you in a bit?” 

Sherlock nods. “We were up most of the night talking, and he showed me a video that someone took of us at a party…” He shakes his head. “It’s just so hard to take in, that I changed so much. That we changed so much.”

“Love has a way of doing that,” his mother tells him gently. “It’s brought out the very best in you. You’re happier than you’ve ever been in your life. You’re gentler, yet also more brilliant, more fun, more passionate. You’ve never talked about it, not with me, at least, but it’s been very clear to Dad and I that you and John are lovers, that you’ve loved each other fiercely from the very start. It’s incredibly moving to see you like this. Or to have seen you like that, perhaps I should say.” 

Sherlock feels his lower lip compressing, unhappy. “I don’t know how to get there again, Mother,” he says. “How do I become that person for him again?” 

His mother regards him with compassion. “Let love have its way,” she says. “That’s all, Sherlock. Don’t resist it. Don’t try to be too clever for it. You’re human – very, _very_ human, and John’s brought all that out in you. Trust it. Trust him. He isn’t going to hurt you or leave you or make you feel stupid. I’ve never heard him sound so lost as I did when he phoned this morning. You’re everything to him, and it’s every bit as true for you. He’s gold, that one, and you can be absolutely sure of his love. Once you trust that, you’ll be able to let go of your fears. I suppose at this point you must feel completely inexperienced all over again. That’s all right. If you trust him, he’ll show you the way.” She reaches over and squeezes his hand. “Honestly, I’ve never seen two people more in love. The two of you were made to be together. It will sort itself out. Just trust him. Trust _it_.”

Sherlock nods slowly, trying to absorb all of this. “I’m trying to,” he says, the words sticking in his throat. “I want to. I just don’t know how.” 

His mother gives him a funny sort of smile, almost pitying. “You’re going to have to learn all over again, dear. Following one’s heart after a lifetime of letting the head rule is not easy. But it will be worth it.”

 _I believe it,_ Sherlock does not say. 

*** 

After three more days of diagnostic tests and more questions than he’s ever answered in a lifetime, Sherlock is discharged from the hospital and permitted to go home. He and John haven’t talked in any more detail, but John has been there with him steadily, touching him lightly here and there, giving him small things. A kiss on the forehead. A brief clasp of his hand. A squeeze to his shoulder. But nothing more, none of what Sherlock is longing for and has already said, so it’s not as though he can go saying it again. John knows that he wants it. But the hospital is not the place for any of that, perhaps. Sherlock has been holding out hope for when they’re permitted to go home. His nervous excitement is all but palpable in the taxi, whereas John is quiet beside him. Sherlock reaches out and puts his hand on John’s and John lets him have it, but spends most of the ride looking out his window. 

He pays before Sherlock can move for his wallet upon their arrival, then takes both of their bags from the boot. “I can take that,” Sherlock insists, and John shrugs and hands it over. 

“As you like, then.” He makes for the door, unlocks it and leads the way inside. 

Sherlock notices that the entrance is brighter than it used to be. The door to 221A stands closed and he wonders if someone is living there now. (Do they have a tenant?) In the upstairs corridor, the wallpaper has changed. It’s subtler, more modern, and tasteful. Sherlock wonders which of them chose it, or if they chose it together. Inside there are other small changes. Everything is cleaner than it ever used to be. Their chairs are closer together, the television moved permanently over to the sofa. Evidently they prefer to watch it sitting close together. Sherlock likes this thought. The kitchen is clean and bright, an empty vase sitting in the middle of the table. John goes to this and puts in a bouquet of flowers from one of Sherlock’s many well-wishers that hadn’t faded yet into it, filling it with water from the tap. Sherlock prowls about the kitchen and sitting room, taking note of everything that’s changed. “Do we have a tenant downstairs?” he asks. 

“What’s that?” John turns around and sets the vase down on the table, arranging a flower or two to droop more gracefully. Sherlock repeats the question and John nods. “Yeah, a university student. Graduate economics or some such thing. He’s a good sort, named Jeremy. He always uses the back lane door, so we rarely bump into him. He keeps to himself, pays the rent on time. The rent pays our bills, so it’s nice to have him. Means neither of us has to work.” 

“Do we own the house now?” Sherlock asks. 

John nods again. “Mrs Hudson left it to us.” 

“Ah.” Sherlock falls silent. John is occupying himself with tying up a bag of rather fragrant rubbish from beneath the sink so he wanders down the corridor to the bedroom. _The_ bedroom, he always said, not bothering to make the personal distinction. He stops just past the doorway and sees that now it really is _the_ bedroom, their bedroom. The pillows are divided evenly, and there are two dressers now, John’s old one brought downstairs and set against the wall at the foot of the bed. He sleeps on the left side of the bed, clearly; there’s book on British military history on the night table with John’s old travel alarm clock, a phone charger already plugged in, and one of his cardigans hung over the back of a chair. Sherlock’s things are on the other side. His own book, one he doesn’t remember owning, about butterflies and cross-pollination or some such thing. A bookmark shows that he was about halfway through it when the coma interrupted his study of the subject. There is a framed photograph of his parents, his mother holding a puppy, standing on his dresser. There are cards as well, a mixture of birthday, Christmas, and anniversary, lined up in neat rows on his dresser. Later, he will read them. 

He feels John’s presence rather than hears him join him. “What do you think?” John asks, and Sherlock hears a certain underlying tension there. 

He looks at John and sees the tightness in his jaw and thinks, _He’s nervous._ John is still worried that he will see the reality of what they’ve become and reject it. Something about this makes Sherlock’s own knot of uncertainty ease and fade away. “It’s – almost unbelievable to see, John,” he says honestly. “It’s like something out of a dream. I used to literally fantasise about this, about sharing this room with you.”

John turns his face and meets his eyes now. “Did you?” he asks, his voice somehow very steady, yet still betraying the same tension. 

“I did,” Sherlock confirms. “I used to lie awake at night, looking up at the ceiling and wishing you were here with me instead of upstairs. I didn’t know how to make it happen, but I always wanted it.” 

“Sherlock…” John turns to him and moves closer, his face a mix of uncertainty and yearning both. 

Without thinking, Sherlock puts his hands on John’s shoulders. “You’re not going to leave this room now, are you? Just because I – you’ll stay down here with me, won’t you?” 

“I’ll never leave you,” John vows, his eyes glassy. “Not as long as you still want me.” He gets closer still, tilts his chin up and puts his mouth to Sherlock’s. The kiss is warm and slow and terribly cautious at first, Sherlock shivering with the sheer delight of it at last. He hears himself make a small sound in the back of his throat and press closer, taking his hands from John’s shoulders and putting his arms around him properly instead. John’s hands move from his waist to his back, warm through Sherlock’s shirt. 

The kiss must be terribly tame, Sherlock thinks, when his brain starts functioning again. Their lips are closed, but he’s nonetheless quivering with the intimacy of it, with the feel of John’s mouth on his. It breaks off after a moment and he makes a sound like denial and moves to start it again, and John doesn’t deny him, his mouth strong and sure. Heat sweeps through Sherlock’s frame in a prickling flush, his heart beating faster than normal and he thinks again of having forgotten six years of this and how horribly unfair that is. Eventually they part again but don’t move away much, their mouths open, John’s breath on his lips, looking into each other’s eyes. “Thank you,” Sherlock says, his voice low and unsteady. Perhaps it’s a stupid thing to thank someone for, but he wanted it so badly. 

John opens his eyes. They’re sombre and dark and searching Sherlock’s. “It had to be here,” he says, his voice just above a whisper. “I didn’t want it to happen at the hospital.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, though he didn’t, and ducks in to kiss John again. John lets him have it, and Sherlock thinks that perhaps it’s fitting that John was the one to kiss him first this time. It goes on for a bit, their mouths parting and meeting, shifting angles, lips opening a little, and Sherlock feels it like a lance through his midsection, the poignancy of it incredibly profound. 

This time John is breathing deeply at the end, his eyes gone starry, and he takes Sherlock’s face into both his hands. “Welcome home, my love,” he says, his voice rough. There’s another kiss, then another, then, “Oh God, Sherlock, I miss you. I miss the other you. But at least you’re still – at least you want this. Want me.” 

“I do,” Sherlock says urgently, his arms still around John’s back. “I want this more than anything. It’s all I want. I don’t care about anything else.” 

John doesn’t challenge this, doesn’t want to, perhaps. He leans his forehead against Sherlock’s, hands still cradling his face. “You’re all I want, too. Nothing else matters.” 

“You want the real me,” Sherlock corrects, the words painful to utter, but it’s the truth and they both know it. “I’ll do my best, John. I promise.” 

John shakes his head. “We’ll get there,” is all he says. After a bit he releases Sherlock and clears his throat. “It’s about supper time,” he says. “I can’t wait to eat some real food again. Do you want me to make something? Would you like to order in?” 

“Anything,” Sherlock says, not caring a fig about food. Not when there’s John. 

*** 

They order in and eat on the sofa, and when Sherlock gets bored of the news, they switch it off. 

“I’m sorry about before,” John says. “In the hospital. You must have thought I kept coming over hot and cold all the time. I just couldn’t be sure of this and I’m sorry. I know you said over and over again that you had wanted this and still wanted it now, but they’re two different things. I knew that the old you had wanted this, back then. But there’s a difference between him choosing it and you choosing it. Before, we had this organic, natural build-up to it. This time – I don’t know, Sherlock. It feels like it will feel a bit forced almost no matter how we go about it, but you’re so keen to get to where we were again, and it’s killing me that we’re not there. I just – I couldn’t keep myself in the mindset of believing it could work a second time, sort of imposed on us this way.”

Sherlock takes his hand and searches his face. “And you still think that,” he says, surmising. “You’re still not sure if it will.” 

But John disagrees. “I’m much surer now,” he says. He lifts Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kisses his fingers. “Since we got home. Since we kissed. I’m starting to believe it can work again. I’ll just need to be very patient.” 

This isn’t as certain as Sherlock would have hoped. “My mother told me that the way to find it again is to trust it,” he tells John. “She seems very sure that we’ll get there again. That _I’ll_ get there, rather. I would do anything to become the man I saw with you in that video again, John.” 

John turns toward him, hooks a leg over Sherlock’s and puts his arms around him, his lips warm on Sherlock’s jawline. “You will,” he says. 

“Are you telling me or yourself?” Sherlock asks, even as he pulls John closer still, his own lips finding John’s hair. 

“Both, probably,” John says with a touch of rue. “I love you, Sherlock. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you, and that isn’t going to change. I do trust it – but this is going to be hard for me. Maybe for you, too. It will be worth it, though.” 

Sherlock hears the echo of his mother. “Can we go to bed?” he asks. “I’m not asking – what I asked before, the first time. I just mean to sleep. This me has no memory of sleeping with you and I find that rather unfair as I’ve wanted it for a rather long time.” 

John pulls away a little and nods. “Yes. Absolutely. It’s been horrendous sleeping alone again this past month.”

Sherlock is relieved. If John had rejected this, left the bedroom they’ve so clearly established as theirs, with its years of intimate history imprinted on the very sheets, it would have felt like a rejection larger than possibly either of them could have handled. He understands why John feels it needs to move slowly, to happen organically, and also that this is impossible. It’s worth trying for, though. 

They go down the corridor and into the bathroom and bedroom, getting ready for bed. John tacitly stays in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and shaving as Sherlock finds a pair of pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, then comes out to change when Sherlock comes to the doorway of the bathroom. After, Sherlock goes to what appears to be his side of the bed and gets in, waiting with more anxiety than he’d care to let on to himself for John to come and get in the other side. He’s never slept with anyone before, at least not in his current memory. He strives to find some trace leading to this, to being on this side of the bed, to the smell of John’s hair on the pillow, but there’s just – nothing. A full gap, as though that entire section of his life was removed in laser surgery. 

John comes out of the bathroom again and switches off the light. He gets into bed with a sigh of relief. “There’s nothing like your own bed,” he says, and Sherlock has to bite his tongue against saying something surprised-sounding about it being John’s “own” bed. Of course it is. It has been for years. John turns on his side toward him. “Still nothing?” he asks, just a bit wistfully. “You don’t remember how we sleep, do you.” 

Sherlock swallows and shakes his head, curled on his side facing John. “I’m sorry.” He feels wretched admitting it. 

John bites his lip. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m the one who should be sorry.” He clears his throat. “We have a few different ways we’ve liked sleeping together. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, though. Maybe that should be something we discover all over again.”

Sherlock considers this. “All right,” he says cautiously. “Except… I don’t know what the options are. I’ve never slept with anyone before. Or… before you, I suppose I should say. Honestly, John, you could just – decide.” 

John’s lips press together in a straight line as he thinks. “Let’s try this,” he proposes. “I’ll give us a few options and we’ll try them all and you can choose which one feels the most comfortable tonight. How would that be?”

“Good. Yes, please,” Sherlock requests, so John starts. 

“First, come closer and put your left leg over my right. Like that, yes. Now put your left arm across my chest, head on the pillow just above my shoulder. Let me just get my arm under your neck there… good, just like that,” he says, his arm coming around Sherlock’s shoulders. “How does that feel?” 

“Nice,” Sherlock tells him. “What are the other options?” 

“Okay: stay where you are…” John extricates his arm and turns around, his back to Sherlock. He inches backward until his back is touching Sherlock’s chest. “Get your legs lined up behind mine. Spoon me. Yeah, that’s good. How’s that for you?” 

“Also nice,” Sherlock says, John’s hair tickling his nose. “Do you like this?” 

“I like sleeping with you, full stop,” John says firmly. “And you’re the one choosing tonight. Okay, third position: reverse of what we’re doing now.” 

“Okay.” Sherlock turns himself over and John follows, his thighs coming up to cradle Sherlock’s from behind, his front pressed into Sherlock’s back, an arm curved around him. 

John kisses the back of Sherlock’s right shoulder. “And this?” 

“This,” Sherlock says in response, his eyes already closed. It feels perfect. It feels almost familiar – not familiar, rather, but the way he imagined it would feel. Only better. More intimate. Closer. Warmer. It feels like comfort and security and sensuality all in one. “This is the way I want to sleep. If you don’t mind.” 

He feels John’s exhalation on his neck. “I don’t mind in the slightest, my love,” he says, his voice going tender again. “I wouldn’t have said, but this is the way we usually sleep. I mean, sometimes you sleep directly on top of me, or vice-versa, especially if we fall asleep right after sex, but for comfort and intimacy, this is our go-to position.” 

Something about this brings the tightness back to Sherlock’s throat. “Then I chose right,” he says, with difficulty, his eyes stinging a little. 

John doesn’t correct him. Instead, he kisses the back of Sherlock’s neck, making him shiver, and agrees. “You chose perfectly, love.” 

*** 

Sherlock wakes the way he fell asleep, still facing away from John, with John’s arm still holding him close. The only change is that he becomes immediately aware that John is aroused. Very aroused. He can feel said arousal pressing directly into the cleft of his arse and his mouth immediately fills with saliva, aware that his own body has already noticed and reacted to this in his sleep. He is embarrassingly hard. 

John’s breathing is still slow and sleepy, but now he makes a low, interested sound and presses closer, his hand rubbing across Sherlock’s lower belly. His breathing shifts and he freezes, going rigid. He’s awake, Sherlock realises. “Oh, shit, sorry,” John says stiffly, his voice rough with sleep and apologetic. He rolls away, leaving Sherlock’s back and legs cool, immediately feeling the loss of contact. 

“You don’t have to – ” he starts, but John interrupts him. 

“Yes, I do. It’s too soon.” And with that, he gets out of bed. “I’m going to take a shower. I’ll come back after, if you want. I just need – ” He does not specify what he needs, but Sherlock imagines that it’s quite clear; said need was just pressing into him a moment earlier. John leaves the sentence hanging and pads into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him, leaving Sherlock alone and hopelessly aroused. 

He cannot remember a time when he’s been this aroused before. His entire body is feeling it, though the concentration of need is centred in his genitals, his penis stiff, protruding, and desperately in need. He looks down at it and finds himself poking up above the waistband of his pyjama pants. The water comes on in the bathroom and Sherlock can’t stop himself, shoving the pants down and gripping himself in agonising need. His entire face is clenched, teeth gritting together, then releasing as he pants, his fist flying along the length of himself. He’s oozing wetness already and it’s going to make a horrible mess. He casts a wild look around and sees a box of tissues on the night table on his side of the bed. Letting go only long enough to grab a handful of them, Sherlock resumes his furious masturbation, thinking of John doing the same thing in the shower, just as hard and fast. John’s gone a month without sex after six years of what he described as a very satisfying sex life, and Sherlock likes to think that perhaps his self-indulgences might have been somewhat subdued while he was in the coma, so now – the thought of it, of John’s face when he – his fist becomes a blur and then a choked sound bursts from his throat and he only just manages to grab for the tissues in time before his body erupts all over them. There’s another gush of it, his balls clenching and releasing and finally relaxing. 

His entire body is flushed with the heat of his orgasm. Masturbation has never felt so good before, but then, he’s also never been that aroused before. He normally deals with these urges in the shower, but couldn’t have managed to wait for John to come out this time. Sherlock realises that this must be evidence of the fact of his body having become significantly more sexual, that even if his mind doesn’t remember, his body certainly does, and has missed John, too. He balls up the tissues and puts them in the wastebasket. 

John emerges some time later, calling out first, cautiously. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” 

John opens the door then. “Just checking,” he says. 

Sherlock is on his back now, waiting. “Checking what?” he asks. 

John gives him a slightly rueful face. “I, er, took care of things in the shower and sort of assume you did, too. I know your body very well and – yeah. I just didn’t want to interrupt.” He comes over to the bed, dressed in his pyjamas again. “Or touch you without it being a torture.” He lifts his eyebrows. “So… are we good?” 

John wants him to confirm that he’s got himself off. Sherlock feels heat rise to his face. He looks away and nods very slightly. 

“Good.” John sounds relieved and gets back into bed, sliding over to the middle, to where he is. 

Sherlock turns so that they’re in the first position John demonstrated last night, his left leg draped over John’s right, an arm stretched out over John’s chest. This time, his spent genitals are also pressed into John’s thigh, the sensation oddly comfortable after his release. He puts his head down on John’s shoulder and John not only permits it all, but puts his arms around Sherlock, his face in Sherlock’s rumpled curls. It feels like relief, and after analysing this for a moment, Sherlock identifies the attachment of the physical release to the source of its inspiration and holds John all the tighter, loving every place that they’re touching. He wishes he could chemically bond himself to John. He turns his face up and John is there, not disappointing or denying him, his mouth finding Sherlock’s and kissing him for a long, rather convincing while. It goes on, restarting every time it tries to end, both of them instigating it. Eventually, sleep comes over Sherlock again. (What time is it? Still early; that’s all he’s deduced. Who cares.) “Let’s go back to sleep,” he says. 

John pauses. “I’ve already showered.” 

“What’s your point?” 

“Never mind,” John says, laughter behind his tone. “You always used to say that, you know. Sometimes we’d stay in bed all morning. Sometimes all day. But yeah, it is still early. We just needed… yeah. Anyway. Sleep it is.” He kisses Sherlock’s forehead again. “I’m not leaving,” he says again. Maybe he’s afraid that Sherlock has already forgotten the last time he said it. 

*** 

They wake up several hours later, sunlight streaming into the room. This time Sherlock becomes aware of his own erection first, as it’s pushing insistently into John’s thigh. He’s just realised this when John wakes with a groan. “Oh, God,” he says, covering his eyes with his forearm. “Your turn for the shower, I think.” 

Sherlock hesitates. “John – ”

“Shower,” John repeats firmly. 

Sherlock sighs and takes himself off to the bathroom. He runs a long, very hot shower and touches himself shamelessly and thinks of John throughout, wondering if he’s doing the same thing. He dresses and finds John in the kitchen after and goes to him, wanting to touch him but unsure of his welcome. He thinks he understands why John doesn’t want it to happen too quickly, but when their bodies both do, why go on denying it? Even as he thinks this, however, his recent memory kicks in of John telling him about them flirting, about Sherlock stripping half his clothes off after a case and how they didn’t have sex then and there was because it was bigger than that, more important than that. 

He hasn’t even spoken, but John hears him and turns anyway, brows lifting. He scans Sherlock’s face, and either he’s developed the ability to read thoughts or else Sherlock has forgotten how to filter every single thing he is thinking and feeling from projecting directly onto his face, because John comes over and does exactly what he wants, taking him into his arms and holding him. Sherlock closes his eyes and lets himself drown in it, feeling the immediate relief of John’s presence and contact again, reinforcing their connection. It’s better than any hit of anything. 

“Better?” John asks after a bit. He sounds subdued. 

Sherlock makes a sound of muffled affirmation into his hair. 

“Me too.” After a little, John pulls back and winds a wet curl of Sherlock’s hair around one finger, smiles a little, and says, “I’m hungry. You want to make brunch? It’s almost one.” 

“Okay.” Sherlock looks around and sees that John has already started on preparations, or plans, at least. There is a carton of eggs on the counter and a loaf of thick-crusted French bread in a paper bag next to it. “Where did we get fresh bread from?” he asks. 

“Oh – your mum dropped by yesterday afternoon and brought a few things, just so that we’d have something to eat. I thought maybe we could make French toast?” John suggests. 

Sherlock studies the ingredients. “I’ve never made French toast.” There is a small silence and he looks over, fearing he’s misstepped. “Or – have I?” he asks, wincing. 

John looks away and nods. 

“Have – have I saved the recipe somewhere?” Sherlock asks, feeling a bit desperate to right this. The last thing he wants is to compound John’s sadness. 

“It’s all right. We don’t have to have that. I forgot. I’m sorry.” John moves swiftly across the room to start making coffee, occupying his hands, his back to Sherlock. 

It’s such a small thing, yet it’s upset everything. “No,” Sherlock hears himself blurt out, stupidly. “Come on – just – tell me what I used to do. It can’t be that hard. Please, John!” 

John looks at him, his eyes so full of that horrendous pain that was there in the hospital all the time and Sherlock hates that it’s there. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, his mouth unhappy. “It was my own stupidity that suggested it. I forgot. I – we can have anything else. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.” 

John apologising to him is unbearable. Sherlock clenches his jaw and swallows, horribly frustrated. He can’t speak or he’ll be yelling within seconds and the last the he wants to do is to yell at John. He takes his phone out of his pocket and types in a search for French toast recipes, his thumbs jabbing hard enough to crack the screen, his throat full of an unswallowable lump. Miracle of miracles, the results show that he’s clicked on one recipe in particular before. He studies the ingredients and proportions, then closes the browser and shoves his phone back into his pocket. There is cream in the fridge and vanilla extract and cinnamon in the cupboard, where they always used to be. Thank God John doesn’t have a propensity for moving things about constantly or he’d be completely lost in his own home now. He takes the sugar bowl from the table and pretends John isn’t pretending not to watch him and sets about determinedly making French toast mix, his jaw set so hard his teeth could crack. He follows the directions to a tee and hopes that he himself hasn’t deviated too severely from them over however many years he’s apparently been making this. The eggs are beaten, the cream, sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon added. He sets a pan on the stovetop and turns it on high, then slices four inch-thick slices of bread from the French loaf and drowns them in the mixture. 

John goes quietly to the fridge and finds an orange. Without saying anything, he cuts it in half and slices off two thin rounds, twisting them to make garnishes. Next he goes to the cupboard and gets a shaker of what proves to be powdered sugar upon Sherlock’s surreptitious inspection when John goes to get mugs and plates, the coffee percolating to itself on the other worktop. 

Sherlock turns the slices over in the pan, shifts them to make room for the new ones, then serves them on the plates John silently left on the counter. He shakes powdered sugar onto them and sets John’s orange garnishes on top. He brings the plates to the table and discovers that John has also found maple syrup somewhere and set it between them, two cups of coffee now poured and doctored to their respective tastes. He sits down across from John. “Is it… all right?” he asks stiffly. 

John swallows and looks down at his plate. “It’s perfect,” he says, the angle almost hiding the wetness in his eyes. 

Sherlock wonders if it’s anything close to being right but thinks that asking and finding out that he did something wrong would be about more than he can handle at the moment. His hands are shaking as he clumsily cuts a first piece and tries it. It tastes good, he thinks. It was a good recipe, if nothing else. 

John tries it, swallows, and bursts out, “Fuck, I’m sorry, Sherlock! It doesn’t _matter_ – I just fucked up and forgot when it was that you started making – I don’t care, and the last thing I wanted was to make you feel – I don’t know, inadequate in any way, or like I think this is your fault or something! I don’t, and I’m sorry!” 

“Please don’t,” Sherlock says sharply, all of his emotions spiking painfully. “Just – it doesn’t matter to me, either. I just wish I were him again. All I want is to be him for you.”

John gets up and comes around the table, turns Sherlock’s chair roughly away from and climbs into his lap, facing him, his hands on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock doesn’t know what’s happening but puts his knife and fork down in favour of holding John. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself,” John says fiercely. “I wish this hadn’t happened to you. I wish things were still the way they were, but they aren’t, and I’m working on accepting that. But you’re still you and I’m still me, and I love you and I’m fucking sorry for everything I do that’s making you doubt that.” 

“You’re not,” Sherlock tries, but John cuts him off. 

“I _am_. I don’t mean to be, but I am. I know it must have felt like a rejection this morning. It wasn’t. Either time.” John’s hands are in his hair and despite everything, Sherlock loves the sensation of it, his scalp sensitive and enjoying the pull. 

“I think I understand,” he says. “I do, John. But explain anyway.” 

John nudges at his nose with his own and kisses Sherlock almost chastely on the lips. “I need for it to be real,” he says quietly. “And _you_ need for it to be real. It’s not a real choice when you want it only because your body is already seventy-five percent there and you’re gagging for it. You can’t make a conscious, thoughtful choice in that condition. I refuse to not respect that, no matter how much I want that, want _you_. We’ll make a decision together, calmly. We’ll talk about it first, and make sure that it’s the right time. This you hasn’t made that choice yet. There hasn’t been time yet, that’s all. Given how fast it happened the first time, I’m guessing it will be sooner rather than later, but we also had six weeks of organic build-up that time. I refuse to rush this, because this may be the only version of our relationship that we both remember going forward, so I want it to happen right, so that we _do_ catch up to where our past selves were.”

It’s kind of John, so incredibly kind, to include himself in this. Sherlock looks up into his face and knows that everything he’s saying is right. He nods. “I understand.” 

John’s fingers move in his hair. “Good,” he says, and kisses Sherlock again, open-mouthed this time. It’s long and full and extremely sensual. He can taste vanilla and cinnamon in John’s mouth. 

When they break apart at last, Sherlock asks, “But how _is_ the French toast?” 

John barks out a laugh that surprises them both. “Honestly, Sherlock, it’s perfect. It’s exactly the same as it always used to be. You’re amazing, you know.” 

Sherlock is relieved. “I found the recipe on my phone, that’s all,” he says. 

“But the way you made it is the same,” John says. Instead of going back to his side of the table, he turns sideways on Sherlock’s lap, reaches to pull his plate closer, and they feed each other. It’s messy and results in a lot of powdered sugar and syrup on each other’s faces, but this proves to make for fun clean-up. There’s a little too much relief mixed into it all, and Sherlock tries not to think of the barely-averted disaster. It’s going to be a bit of a minefield going ahead. But worth it, he thinks again, looking up into John’s grey-blue eyes. 

*** 

“Lestrade texted me a bit ago,” John says later. They’re both on the sofa, Sherlock’s feet in John’s lap. 

“Oh? What did he want?” Sherlock is only vaguely curious. 

“He wanted to see us.” John looks at him. “I said to give it a few days. Is that all right with you? I can text him back if you like, tell him to come.” 

“No.” The word is instinctive and Sherlock struggles to explain it, soften it. “I just – not yet. Not while things are still so new. For now, I just want you. No one else.” 

John nods. “That’s precisely how I feel,” he says. He reaches for Sherlock hand and weaves their fingers together. “We’re still building our base camp here.”

Sherlock finds the military parallel rather endearing. “Indeed,” he says, and John leans over and kisses him again 

*** 

That night, they sleep in the same position as the night before, with John holding Sherlock from behind. Sherlock lies awake for some time, listening to John’s soft, regular breathing, still marvelling at the feeling of having him there. He closes his eyes and struggles to make himself remember something, but there’s nothing whatsoever. No sensation of having a word on the tip of his tongue. It’s just – blank. He gives up after awhile and falls asleep. 

When he wakes, he finds that he’s turned over and pressed himself up along John’s side again, his erection thick and heavy with unsated want against John’s hip. John wakes as Sherlock makes what sounds like a decidedly interested sound. His intake of breath is sharp, and comes out as a groan. “Shower,” he gets out, pushing the covers down and hastening into the bathroom, but not before Sherlock’s got himself an eyeful of the full-blown tent in John’s pyjama bottoms. They stage a repeat of the previous morning, Sherlock already touching himself before the bathroom door has closed all the way. It’s agony, having John so close but not here now, when Sherlock wants him the most. He understands the reasons perfectly rationally – and loves John all the more for them. But his flesh is aching as he grips and strokes it with both hands, desperate for the release. He pulls up his t-shirt and comes onto his stomach and chest in several pulsing rounds, then goes still, panting, his limbs relaxing at last. He hears John make a sound that comes from his throat, audible even over the water and through the closed door, and it makes his penis twitch again, just hearing it. 

Sherlock reaches for the tissues after a moment and cleans up as best as possible, then tucks himself away and pulls the blankets over himself again, yawning and waiting for John to come back. He only has to wait five minutes or so, and then John is there, not asking this time, but climbing back into bed without complaint and pulling Sherlock into his arms, their bodies spent and easy and therefore allowed to touch again. Sherlock scolds the complaining voice in his head and concentrates instead of the blissful feeling of bonding in the aftermath of his release to the person he wants most in this life, and revels in it. 

*** 

John goes out to run a few errands in the afternoon. He asked if Sherlock wanted to come, but Sherlock feels an odd reluctance to leave the house and John doesn’t pester him over it. Besides, he tells himself, a bit of space might be exactly what John wants or needs, perhaps. After a bit, however, Sherlock gets bored and decides to go for a short walk, just to get some air. He wanders a few blocks, taking note of everything that’s changed in the past few years. There’s a new florist next to the Chinese restaurant on the corner. On impulse, he steps inside and has a look around. He chooses a bouquet of red roses, Japanese irises, and large orange tiger lilies with a tasteful arrangement of greens. He has it wrapped and takes it back to the flat. The vase on the table suggests that they do sometimes have flowers, so he takes out the wilting get-well bouquet and puts John’s flowers inside. He bought a small card with it but hasn’t written in it yet, so he sits down at the kitchen table to do that. Sherlock thinks for several minutes, then writes: 

_Dear John,_  
_Thank you for your patience._  
_Thank you for still loving me,_  
_even if the me you know is gone._  
_I’m trying to catch up. I won’t stop_  
_until I’ve got there. I promise._  
_–Sherlock_

He tucks the card into its envelope and slips it in among the leaves, then has a look around the kitchen to see what he could do in terms of cleaning, so that John isn’t doing it all. He’s just finishing the washing up when John walks in, calling his name. “I’m here,” Sherlock calls back. “In the kitchen!” 

John comes up the stairs with several bags of groceries in his hands. “Take these, will you?” he says, giving Sherlock the bags in his left hand. “They’re killing my hand.” 

Sherlock takes the bags and puts them down on the table to unpack them, hoping that John will notice the rather large bouquet. 

“Nice flowers,” John comments, almost indifferently. “Did someone drop by while I was out?” 

Oh. He thinks they’re for Sherlock. “No,” Sherlock says, taking out a bottle of milk and carrying it and a wheel of cheese to the fridge. “I went for a walk.” He puts the items away, then turns around, feeling self-conscious, aware of John’s eyes on him. “I saw a florist’s, so I thought…” He sounds horrendously awkward. “They’re for you,” he clarifies stiffly. 

John’s eyes go soft. “You bought me flowers?” He bends to sniff, though Sherlock thinks that perhaps he’s just avoiding eye contact. He finds the card and pulls it out, coming over without opening it. “They’re beautiful, Sherlock,” he says, with a very slight tremor in his voice. He puts his hands on Sherlock’s hips and kisses him. “Thank you.” 

Sherlock still feels a bit confused. “Do I not – usually do that?” he asks uneasily. “Have I misstepped?” 

“Not at all,” John assures him. “You do. In fact, though, these are some of your favourite flowers, rather than – but I love them. They’re gorgeous.” He’s very firm and Sherlock realises his error: he unwittingly bought flowers that _he_ likes, not what John likes. 

He feels disappointed and slightly disgusted with himself. “What kind of flowers do you prefer?” he asks, watching John open the small envelope. 

John shakes his head, not saying anything for a moment. “Ones you can’t usually find in a shop,” he says, a bit vaguely. He reads the small card, and his demeanour changes. “Oh, Sherlock,” he says, and moves closer, folding Sherlock into his embrace. “I do still love you, no matter what. And you don’t have to keep apologising. It’s not your fault.” 

“I know that,” Sherlock says, but it doesn’t make either one of them wish any less that he hadn’t lost his memory, he thinks. 

They go to the sofa and sit down. “I told you I would show you our wedding photos,” John says, gracefully changing the subject. “Would you like to see them now?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, instantly curious. “Please.” 

John smiles at him and reaches for a photo album from the coffee table. He puts it in Sherlock’s lap and sits very close, his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Go on, then,” he says. 

Sherlock opens the book, his fingers slightly unsteady. This must have been such an important day for him. For them. The very first photo is one of the two of them, in matching suits. Their faces are beaming, and Sherlock thinks that John is practically glowing. They both look as though they’ve won the pools. He studies the image for a long time, then turns the page. Now it’s arrangements of various groups: the two of them with Sherlock’s parents. The two of them with Harry. Then Mrs Hudson. (Sherlock’s chest gives a pang at this.) One with Harry and Mycroft. One with Lestrade and Mycroft. 

“Mycroft insisted on being your best man,” John tells him dryly. “So we had two, and Greg was mine. Needless to say, Mycroft didn’t come on the stag night. We invited him to be nice, but it was a relief for everyone when he declined.” He nods at the page. “Keep going. I want you to see the swans.” 

“I want to see the ceremony first,” Sherlock says, turning the page to find a series of photos taken inside a church. “We got married in a church?” he asks, with a touch of disbelief. 

“It was to please your father,” John says. “And Mrs Hudson. Between the two of them, you couldn’t say no.” 

“Ah.” Sherlock can’t quite believe it, watching the stills of himself sliding a ring onto John’s hand, the same one John is wearing now, his face open and full of unfiltered sentiment as he repeats the words the vicar is giving him to say. And John’s face is just as unfiltered, blinking hard in one still, and then he’s slipping Sherlock’s ring on. Sherlock thinks that he will have to study these photographs every day until he’s committed every single detail to memory. He turns the page. 

“We had our reception here,” John says, giving the name of the place. “Luca found it for us, just outside the city. We hired him because someone recommended him at a party and it seemed like a good idea at the time. It did save us a lot of work, though he had some interesting ideas. It was a beautiful wedding in the end. Not least because of your swans. Look, on the next page.” 

Sherlock obediently turns the page, and sure enough, there are swans. There are sitting in graceful groups or wandering individually through the beautifully-decorated, glassed-in room. The windows are strung with fairy lights, fresh flowers everywhere, and the swans are actually the perfect touch. They’re outside on the lawn, too, and the photographer has captured a shot of one pecking at a distraught-looking guest’s dress. Sherlock takes a closer look and realises that the guest is Harry Watson and this is somehow very satisfying. “I actually love the swans,” he says. 

John laughs. “You know, it was a ridiculous mistake, but to be honest, I did, too. They were rather lovely.” 

Sherlock turns another page and it’s them, their first dance. They’re alone on the dance floor, a string quartet playing in the corner, their guests forming a circle on the edges of the room. Their faces are full of wonder and affection and happiness, but it’s nothing to the looks on both of their faces. Sherlock, being taller, is looking down into John’s face, John’s tilted up to look at him. Their expressions are full of such palpable love that Sherlock can feel it in his chest, just seeing it, and this time he doesn’t feel jealous. That’s him. He knows it, somehow, somewhere deep within himself. Later in the dance, they’ve moved even closer, their cheeks pressed together, and they’ve both closed their eyes. In one shot, Sherlock sees his mother touching her eyes as she watches them dance. He swallows, and turns another page. Now they’re dancing with other people. There’s a beautiful shot of him with Mrs Hudson, one he makes a mental note to ask John for a copy of to put on his dresser. The photograph on the final page is the two of them again, and they’re kissing. Sherlock looks at it for a long time, then closes the book. He turns his head not quite all the way toward John and says, “I’m so glad we’re married.” 

John’s arms tighten immediately. “I am, too.” He puts his hand on Sherlock’s face and turns it the rest of the way, leaning in to kiss him. 

The book gets transferred back to the coffee table and they rearrange themselves as they kiss, getting closer together. Part of Sherlock wants to do nothing but this for the rest of the day, but after a bit, other questions occur. He pulls away eventually. “Where did we go for our honeymoon?” 

John smiles and smoothes an errant curl back from Sherlock’s forehead. “You let me plan it,” he says. “You wanted it to be a surprise, and that was exactly what I wanted, too. Your only request was that it not be a city. You said you didn’t want distractions and noise and other people and their problems and stories and crimes. You just wanted it to be us.” 

Sherlock listens to this, fascinated, and knows that his past self was very wise in this. “So where did we go?” 

“I considered so many options,” John says. “But in the end, I rented a cottage in Sussex for us. A little place all by itself at the very end of an isolated little road. It was perfect. We stayed there for three weeks of complete bliss. We didn’t argue once. The gardens were in bloom and there was one bit in particular that we liked. In fact… there was one part of the garden that was really lovely. There was a trellis with climbing roses, big red ones, and then a garden shaded by a wisteria tree. The wisteria was long, hanging almost down to the ground, and we made love under it every day except once when it rained.”

“John…” Sherlock turns toward him again, mesmerised by this image. He leans over, touches his lips to John’s and says, his voice low and tremulous, “I _am_ ready, you know. I was even back – now. I want to, so badly and I have for so long. I’m not just saying so because my body wants it. I need for us to do this. I need you. Please. _Please._ ”

John hesitates a little, searching his eyes. “You wanted this, even back… now? You want this now?” His voice is only just above a whisper. 

“More than anything,” Sherlock tells him, trying not to beg but close to it. “I need to know what it feels like, to be with you like that – ” He touches John’s mouth with his fingers, then kisses him, again, again, their tongues pressing together. “Please,” he breathes out again, his heart in his throat. He’s never felt so exposed or vulnerable before. 

John opens his eyes, the irises flooded by his pupils. He nods, looking deeply into Sherlock’s eyes. “All right. All right,” he says. “Why don’t you go and – get ready. Get undressed and that. I’ll come and join you in five minutes.” 

Sherlock’s heartbeat soars. “Okay,” he says, and gets himself off the sofa. He gets into the bedroom and undresses hastily, his fingers suddenly clumsy. He’s not at all sure what he’s meant to do in order to prepare himself, but he goes into the bathroom and brushes his teeth and gives himself a quick wash just to make sure everything is fresh. He’s fairly certain that John will keep to relatively tame areas, but he is thorough. Just in case. A quick sniff under his arms says that he still smells like deodorant, so that should be fine. He pulls on his old blue silk dressing gown and goes into the bedroom. He doesn’t know what to do, so he paces, going to the window and coming back again, trying not to overthink this and failing miserably. 

John comes down the corridor and shuts himself in the bathroom, pulling closed the door to the bedroom, too. Sherlock hears the sound of running water, the toilet flushing, then more running water. John is undressing, he gathers by the blurred shape moving through the frosted glass. Finally the door opens and John comes out, wearing his dressing gown, his hands in the pockets. He smiles at Sherlock. “Ready?” he asks, his voice already lower than usual, and Sherlock’s pulse reacts immediately.

“Very much so,” he confirms, his mouth going dry. His palms, on the other hand, become damp and he presses them into his thighs to dry them surreptitiously. 

John comes over and looks up into his face. “I love you,” he says, and Sherlock lowers his mouth to be kissed. John kisses him very slowly and very gently, his hands coming up to untie the sash of Sherlock’s dressing gown, then settling warmly on his hips, flesh against flesh at last. John draws away after a little. “You’re trembling,” he says softly. 

Sherlock is aware of this, and also of the fact that he isn’t hard yet. “I’m – is that – ” Sherlock is stammering, horribly afraid of disappointing John. 

John shakes his head. “As long as you still want this.” 

“I do – John, please – ” Sherlock reaches for his face, lips needing John’s, and he hides himself in the kiss with relief. His hands go clumsily to John’s dressing gown, untying it and pushing beneath to touch him (at last, at last!). 

John permits it, still kissing him slowly, sensually, his hands gentle on Sherlock’s skin, stroking his back and hips. He moves his mouth to Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock tips his head back to allow it, fingers gripping John a little harder than they should. “I love your throat,” John murmurs. “I always have.” 

Sherlock exhales deeply. “John – I’m not – does it bother you that I’m not – ”

John pulls back a little to look at him, his eyes half-lidded. “That you’re not – ” He looks down between them and sees that Sherlock is still soft. His eyes come back to meet Sherlock’s anxious ones and he strokes Sherlock’s face and hair with his left hand. “Am I correct in thinking that you’re rather nervous, eagerness to try this aside?” he asks, his tone gentle. 

It feels so shameful to admit it. Sherlock swallows. “Yes.” The admission is excruciating. 

John smiles, though. “Don’t be,” he admonishes. “It will – get there in due course. Just be patient. We’re going to do this properly.” He takes Sherlock’s hand and leads him over to the bed. “Take off my dressing gown,” he says. 

Sherlock ducks his chin in obeisance. “Okay.” He pushes the two halves of the robe open and off John’s arms, leaving John naked – naked and beautiful, and entirely comfortable with it. Sherlock bites his lip. “God – you’re – ”

“Yes?” John prompts, unashamed. 

“Perfect,” Sherlock says, meaning it. John smiles and Sherlock wants to taste the smile, so he does, John’s lips parting for him, letting him inside. Sherlock lets his hands travel over that expanse of newly-revealed skin, seeing it with his fingertips first, mapping every tactile bit of John. The planes of his chest, his muscled back, the firm curve of his arse. 

John is touching him, too, but gentler. Eventually he removes Sherlock’s dressing gown, too, and urges him onto the bed. He bends over Sherlock and puts his mouth to his throat, hands stroking his chest and sides, fingers grazing his nipples. Sherlock feels these harden at John’s touch, and when John slips lower and put his mouth to them, a prickling wave of arousal sweeps through him at last, breaking through his wall of nervous anticipation. Tightness gathers in his testicles and as though he can feel it himself, John’s hand dips down and touches these, gentle as ever. It’s a once-over, really, just a brief cupping of his genitals, a single stroke of his penis, but Sherlock feels himself almost reaching out for John’s hand once it has departed to caress his stomach again. 

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and realises he’s forgotten to do anything for John all this time. He’s gripping ineffectually at his shoulder, his other arm trapped. (How could he have ever engaged in this act with any manner of confidence? He feels awkward, horribly awkward. Sherlock cannot imagine himself having demanded that John take him to bed, cannot imagine anything beyond his audacious, fervent whisper on the sofa earlier.) “John – what – what should I be doing?” he gets out, stammering. 

John smiles up at him, his face beautiful. “Nothing that you don’t feel like doing,” he says. “There are no expectations, Sherlock. This is a free-for-all. There is nothing you can do or not do that will disappoint me here. Just follow your instincts.” 

“What if my instincts fail?” The question slips out without him meaning for it to, betraying so much horrible amounts of insecurity, which must be tremendously unarousing right now.

John looks up, and moves back up his body again, settling on his side facing Sherlock. He puts his hand on Sherlock’s face again and says, as tenderly as Sherlock can recall having heard him speak before, “Trust it. Remember? We’ve been here before, many times, even if you don’t remember. And you want this, and you can have it. This is all yours. Anything you want.” John’s lips touch his briefly. “And we can stop this if you change your mind and think you need more time, too,” he reminds Sherlock. “You’re not committed to anything you don’t want to do.” 

“I just – don’t know what I’m doing,” Sherlock says, his heart beating uncomfortably, too close to John now to be able to be anything but painfully honest. “I want to, but – show me, please. Show me what to do.” 

“That part’s easy,” John murmurs, touching his mouth to Sherlock’s again. “Touch me.” He takes Sherlock’s hand and moves it to between his legs, where his erection is already mouth-wateringly hard and full, and in relief for the permission, Sherlock curls his hand around it immediately. 

“Oh – ” The sound escapes his lips without his permission. “It feels – it feels like I thought it would.” Sherlock’s own body hardens even further at this admission, and John makes a low, fervent sound of approval. 

“May I?” he asks, his hand moving to Sherlock’s hip. 

“Yes – please,” Sherlock gets out, and John kisses him again and puts his hand on Sherlock and begins to touch him, rubbing gently. Sherlock’s entire spine quivers, his thighs echoing it and he hears himself make another involuntary sound into the kiss. John touches him, tugging and stroking, and it feels so good that Sherlock can hardly breathe, his entire nervous system singing with the pleasure of it, and shivering with the intimacy of it, of having John touch him _here_. He returns the touches as best as he can, imitating John, squeezing and stroking, and John makes more approving sounds into his mouth. 

He stops touching Sherlock after a little, though, and breaks off the kiss to work his way down Sherlock’s torso again. He laves his tongue over Sherlock’s chest and nipples, then lower to his stomach. “Put your hands in my hair,” he instructs, and Sherlock does as he’s told. John presses kisses to his stomach, then reaches for his erection again and rubs his palm against Sherlock’s testicles, which quiver and jerk in response.

He doesn’t need to worry about his level of arousal now, he notices; he’s about as hard as it gets. Or so he thinks until John starts licking it, pressing the flat of his tongue to it and licking from root to tip. He does this three or four times, only just touching his tongue to the sensitive head of Sherlock’s penis and making him gasp, then finally enveloping him in the heat of his mouth the fifth time. It feels so good that Sherlock can’t help the sound he makes, stuttering from his throat in a cry. His body writhes against the sheets, trying not to push into the dark, hot haven of John’s perfect mouth, trying not to grip John’s hair too tightly. 

John is stroking his right thigh with his free hand; the other is wrapped around the base of Sherlock’s erection, jerking roughly, in time with the bobbing of his mouth over Sherlock’s most sensitive flesh.

He can’t speak. “J – J – ”

John releases him and crawls up his body, straddling his waist and bending over to kiss him again, their mouths meeting hard this time, Sherlock sucking at his mouth, desperate and beyond the capacity to hold himself back. 

He puts his hands on John’s arse and thrusts up against him and John – wonderful John – doesn’t deny him this. Instead, he thrusts back, meeting Sherlock in rhythm. It’s slightly rough and after a moment, John reaches for the drawer of the night table on his side of the bed, pauses for a moment, fiddling with something, then brings back a palmful of lubricant. He rubs this over both of them, then resumes what he was doing. It’s faster now, Sherlock panting his need into John’s jaw and ear, wordless with the exquisite pleasure curling up from his pelvic floor and twisting through him relentlessly. He hears himself cry out again and John gives a low, rough sound in response, raw and almost animalistic. He reaches between them and grabs hard, his fist jerking over them both, and it’s both too much and not enough – Sherlock makes a sound that can only be described as a wail and _pushes_ – and then everything goes still as he feels himself tip over the edge. His legs are jerking and his body spurts out a hot jet of release, then another, then another. He can’t control it – he is coming and can’t stop, almost thrashing against John in the throes of his orgasm. He is still coming, in embarrassing profusion and John is groaning and cursing and then – his back twitches and his hips pump forward, hard, and he’s coming, too, in hard thrusts against Sherlock’s twitching penis. 

He stills when it passes, collapsing down onto Sherlock’s chest in spite of the mess between them, his back heaving. Sherlock puts his arms around John’s back and pants hard into his hair, his entire body quivering in the aftershocks of his first time with John, with anyone, but particularly that it’s John. For a long while they lie that way, John draped heavily onto him, and Sherlock loves this, too. Beyond the physical peak, he feels as though he’s died and been reborn, fully fledged as a man at last. He’s crossed some invisible barrier that’s kept him apart from other people, normal people (he’d always tried not to think it, yet the thought persisted regardless). He belongs to John in body now, or again, in a way that he can tangibly remember and grasp and use as evidence. 

“I love you,” he says, still breathing hard, and the words stir John’s hair with his breath. 

John shifts, his arms and legs all tightening in response. “I love you, too,” he says. Then – “God, Sherlock – I’m glad you didn’t let me drag it out any longer. It feels _right_ again. Because we do this. We’re lovers, you and I, and this is right. We needed this.” 

Sherlock reaches for his face, wanting to see him. “You needed it, too?” he asks, searching John’s eyes. 

“So badly,” John tells him, frank and open. “I was trying to let it be organic, but maybe I was making things feel artificial by denying us both. I don’t know. I don’t know the right answers to any of this. Still, though – you’re not – you liked it?” 

“I loved it,” Sherlock confesses, feeling reckless about saying it that freely. “I want to do it again. How often do we normally – ?”

John’s eyes gleam. “At least once per day, usually. The only exceptions have been during cases. But even then, sometimes. Every now and then we’d go for a few days without and sometimes it would become a distraction for you that you _hadn’t_ , rather than what you used to think, that it would – so we’d find somewhere discreet and jerk each other off, or I’d suck you off somewhere and you’d return the favour. Once you fucked me in Lestrade’s office right in the middle of an investigation. During cases, you always wanted to top, and that was fine with me. We’ve, er, done it in some slightly dangerous places, in terms of nearly being caught. You like that, though. In fact, it’s usually your idea when we do.” 

Sherlock feels his brows lift at this. “Interesting,” he says, and it is. Somehow he finds himself a bit pleased to learn this, that he’s become in some past he does not recall, that – confident about it, for lack of a better word. That immersed into his own sexuality that he can behave that way. He turns to John as John shifts sideways, keeping his arms around him. “Do you think I’ll ever get like that again?” he asks, a bit wistfully. 

John presses a kiss to his shoulder. “I don’t know,” he says. “But this is the new reality. This was our first time, as us. As who we are now. For now, that’s all that matters.” 

Sherlock looks at him for a long time before answering, holding himself back from questioning this verbally, at least. At last he says, “Okay.” And leaves it at that. 

*** 

John was right that it was the right decision. Things are immediately easier and more relaxed between them. Sherlock feels as though he’s been allowed access into some inner sanctum of John at last – of John and possibly of himself, as well. That afternoon, they drag themselves out of bed to make dinner, eat holding hands across the table, which is ridiculously sentimental, but Sherlock could not possibly care less if someone held a gun to his head. Afterwards they do the washing up together and then Sherlock stops holding it back and asks if they can go back to bed. 

John smiles as though to himself and hangs up his tea towel. “That’s exactly what I was going to suggest, actually. Not even to – just to be together, now that we can, again.” 

So they go back to bed and lie together kissing as the room darkens around them, and when Sherlock finds himself hardening again, John is there at once, touching him, stroking him into full hardness and then wringing out an orgasm so gentle, yet so strong that Sherlock has to turn his face into the pillow to stifle himself as he shouts through it, body shaking violently as he spends himself, painting John’s belly and torso in stripes of his release. After he’s recovered himself, his eyes wet, body spent, John lets him explore, putting his own need on hold to let Sherlock do this. Sherlock touches and tastes and prods, experimenting. He looks up at John now, concerned that he’s taking too long. “You don’t mind that I’m doing this?” he asks, just to confirm. 

John’s smile is somehow almost sad. “No,” he says, the single syllable bearing the ring of truth, and Sherlock gets it: John was genuinely worried that he wouldn’t want this any more. He’s merely glad that Sherlock is touching him at all. 

The thought makes him all the more anxious to prove it, that even post-orgasm, he is very much interested in John, in his body, in giving him pleasure. He puts his lips to John’s belly, a touch of softness over a hard underlay of solid muscle. He finds the muscle attractive, but loves the softness even more. “I love your stomach,” he says, kissing it again. He looks up and finds John smiling slightly, an odd expression on his face. “What?” he asks, concerned that he’s said something wrong. (Is John self-conscious about the softness? Is this a taboo subject?) 

John just shakes his head, though. “I like what you’re doing,” he says. “Don’t stop.” 

Sherlock runs his fingers through the light covering of hair on John’s belly and inches lower, tracing the line of John’s pelvis with his mouth and nose. The smell of this part of John, between his legs, is earthy and primal, and part of him hopes that the connection to this scent will awake his deadened memory, but the door remains firmly closed. (Never mind. Not now.) Sherlock nudges his nose into every delicate nook and cranny, inhaling deeply, touching with his tongue, letting his hands settle on John’s hips. He hears John’s breathing quicken and can feel his pulse through his skin. This is – phenomenal, getting to explore this way, to take his time about it. He licks and breathes and rubs his cheek along John’s trembling inner thigh, then licks the line with his leg meets his crotch. He expands this inward until he’s licking directly at John’s testicles and John emits a long, drawn-out moan. When Sherlock glances up, he sees that John’s covered his face with both of his forearms, that his chest is heaving with breath. Pleased, Sherlock resumes, sucking each of John’s delicate testicles into his mouth, cupping them with his tongue, memorising their shape and weight. Finally he lets himself do what he’s secretly wanted to do for years now, and applies his tongue to John’s penis, licking a long stripe up from root to tip. 

John moves his arms and digs all ten fingers into the sheets now, exhaling vocally. There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead and Sherlock congratulates himself for having put it there. He repeats the long lick, then lets himself taste the fluid leaking from the tip, clear and salty and somehow exactly right. This is the taste of John, then. He licks it again, then gives in and wraps his mouth around the entire head, careful to keep his teeth from grazing it. John groans loudly and his entire body jerks. “Oh, God – Sherlock – ”

Sherlock reaches for one of John’s hands and John takes it, locking their fingers together hard, gripping his hand almost painfully. He also gets a leg around Sherlock’s back, his foot hooking beneath Sherlock’s right arse cheek. Encouraged, Sherlock begins to move the way John did earlier, moving his head up and down John’s thick length, mindful to pay more attention to the head, rubbing his tongue over the leaking slit and sucking there before plunging downward again. It’s addictive, somehow. He’s always wanted to try this, do this for John. He recalls the way John used his hand earlier and does the same now, alternating between stroking him and tugging at his testicles. 

“Sherlock – !”

John’s voice rises in sudden, sharp warning, but before Sherlock can lift off, John starts to come, the spray of it catching Sherlock in the back of the throat, his body stiffening. He nearly chokes but swallows it down instead, then again and again as John’s penis throbs in his mouth twice more, his testicles moving in Sherlock’s hand, emptying themselves. Sherlock waits, then pulls back to lick away anything remaining. He kisses the tip of John’s penis and it responds by sputtering out a tiny, last shot directly onto his lips. 

John puts a hand in Sherlock’s hair as he licks his lips and he pulls gently. “Come here,” he says, somewhere between an order and a plea. 

Sherlock crawls up John’s body and settles onto him and John pulls him down to lick Sherlock’s lips as though trying to taste himself, then kisses him, then again and again after that. He makes as though to pull away after, but Sherlock makes a sound of negation and pursues it, kissing John deeply, both of their mouths open, tongues stroking against each other’s. 

John pushes his fingers into Sherlock’s curls. “You really didn’t – you didn’t mind doing that?” he asks, almost shyly, if John Watson even possesses the ability to be shy. The question reminds Sherlock of the night when John asked if he was all right after they’d heard that the Woman was dead. He hadn’t seen until later that John had taken his courage in both hands to ask, really trying to ask something else but not yet knowing how to ask it. 

Sherlock shifts to the side, keeping his face close to John’s, eyes on his. “‘Mind’ is not the term,” he says, some of the marvel he’s been feeling creeping into his tone. “I’ve wanted to do that for years. I mean that. It’s – it’s a privilege, John. I wanted to. I want to do it again, whenever we both want to. I want to do any of this – in whatever form – all the time. It still strikes me as being completely unbelievable that I’m permitted this now. That I already have been for quite some time.” 

“‘Permitted’ isn’t the word, either,” John tells him soberly, his eyes probing Sherlock’s. “It’s a given. It comes with the territory. It’s a right, an invitation granted in perpetuity. We are lovers. Everything that I have and everything that I am is yours, Sherlock. Forever.”

Sherlock feels something come into his throat, blocking his breath and making speech momentarily impossible. “Likewise,” he manages at last, the word nearly breaking him to say, and John seizes him and holds him as tightly as he can, both of them struggling for breath, for the ability to realise that this is true – for the first time for Sherlock, and still for John. Neither of them lets go for a very long time. 

*** 

Everything turns into what feels like an unbelievable fantasy after that. Whatever he does, no matter how or when, John is there if Sherlock wants him, and he always wants him, whether he is showering, brushing his teeth, going to the shops, even just going to the corner to pick up a bottle of milk. John is there as he dresses himself, a hand squeezing one of his arse cheeks in affectionate playfulness as Sherlock bends to step into his underwear, or appearing in the mirror behind him as he ties the sash of his dressing gown, arms slipping around Sherlock’s waist, a kiss pressed to his shoulder. Reaching over to pick up one of the things Sherlock was about to chop for whatever he’s cooking and joining him in unspoken companionship, getting a cutting board of his own and starting to peel and chop. John is there as he shaves, their eyes on each other in the mirror. He even lets John do it for him one day, sitting on the edge of the counter and silently trusting John as hard as he loves him, and fiercely aroused by the time it’s over, which leads to them making love there in the bathroom, Sherlock bent over the counter, his eyes still on John’s as John drives into him from behind. 

They’ve discovered just about everything John has said was in their sexual repertoire within a handful of days since the first time, and as experimental and shiveringly new as it is for Sherlock, it seems to be as new and exciting for John, too. “Well, it _is_ ,” John says, when Sherlock points this out as they’re lying about in bed one morning, after the fact. He’s lying in the crook of Sherlock’s arm, an arm and a leg curled possessively around Sherlock. “Sex isn’t something you do alone, my love. Experiencing you experiencing it for the first time makes it a first time for me, too. The other day, when I put my fingers in you for the first time, I felt everything you were feeling. Every single quiver of your body I felt in my fingers, and I knew exactly what you were feeling and how strongly and it was as though I was feeling it myself. There are no solo acts here, not when we’re both there.” 

Sherlock absorbs this and finds it to be true. “What about comparisons, though? Have certain acts been more enjoyable the first time? Or now? Have you been thinking about that?” 

John shakes his head. “No,” he says, and Sherlock knows that he means it. “They’re not comparable. Each time we do anything is unique. I wouldn’t do us the discourtesy of trying to say that any one time was better than any other time.” 

Sherlock turns his head and puts his lips to John’s temple. “I love you,” he says simply, in lieu of any other response, and John’s arm and leg tighten and he leans over and says it back against Sherlock’s lips. 

It’s paradise. Sherlock throws himself into the kiss and revels in it with shameless abandon, at least until John’s phone pings with a text. He lets go with reluctance to allow John to reach for it. “It’s Lestrade,” he says. “He still wants to see us. You’ve been out of the hospital for eight days now. It’s about time you said yes, don’t you think?” 

Surprisingly, Sherlock finds himself quite amenable to this all of a sudden. “Yes, all right,” he says instantly. “Invite him over. When does he want to come?” 

“Tonight, if we’re free,” John tells him. “Okay with you?” 

“Yes. Fine. Good.” Sherlock thinks about this for a moment and discovers that now that things are solid with John, he is very much willing to allow other people into their circle again. Not before, though. It was too important to re-establish things – or establish them for a first time, however one prefers to view it – with John first. 

“Also, we should let your parents see you,” John goes on. “It’s Thursday today. Perhaps we should invite ourselves over for lunch on Sunday. You haven’t seen their dog for awhile and you always love that. I mean, you haven’t really met him yet at all. He’ll remember you, though – he adores you.” 

This idea has a great deal of merit, too. “What sort of dog is he?” Sherlock asks, curious. The puppy is there in the framed photo of his parents but he’s very small and the breed is difficult to make out. 

“A dachshund,” John says. “A miniature one, with short, tan fur. His name is Alistair. Your parents call him Allie.” 

“Alistair,” Sherlock repeats, privately enchanted already. “Yes, all right. Do you want to call them? Should I call them?” 

“I could, but I suspect your mum would like to hear from you,” John points out, and Sherlock knows that he’s right. And also that John has tactfully not been nagging him on this point for the past week or so. 

“I’ll do that,” he promises. His stomach chooses that moment to rumble rather audibly and John snickers. 

“Hungry? Me, too. What do you say we shower and take ourselves out for brunch?” John proposes. “That place around the corner, with the good eggs benny and waffles?”

“Mmm. Yes, definitely,” Sherlock agrees. He detaches himself from John with reluctance. “You’re showering with me, though, yes?” He gets out of bed and goes naked around it toward the bathroom, but stops to wait for John’s response. 

John gets out of bed. “The old you would have informed, not asked,” he says, smiling. “But the answer is yes, of course.”

Sherlock smiles back and files away this bit of information about his past self, resolving to continue striving more toward that style of behaviour. He turns on the water and John comes to stand near him, relieving himself just behind him. Even now, Sherlock wants to kiss him, and decides not to curb the urge. It seems that John never wants him to hold back, and has not yet set any boundaries on this, so Sherlock moves to stand behind him and kisses him from over John’s shoulder even as John relieves himself, his hands on John’s waist. And John does not refute this, either, kissing back as though he doesn’t care in the slightest. He flushes after and climbs into the shower, pulling Sherlock in with him and continuing the kiss more or less unbroken, and Sherlock thinks again that this unlimited, boundless access to John is a paradise beyond belief. 

*** 

Lestrade comes over that night and Sherlock discovers that he is actually very glad to see him. He not only lets Lestrade bear hug him, but even hugs back. “Wonderful to see you on your feet again, Sherlock,” Lestrade tells him, and they go and sit down, John going into the kitchen to fetch a tea tray. 

“It’s rather good to be awake again,” Sherlock replies a bit dryly. “Though of course, that’s brought its own challenges.” 

Lestrade glances at John and accepts a mug of tea from him. “I can imagine,” he says. “So – still nothing, then, memory-wise?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Nothing since January 2015.”

Lestrade blows on his tea and takes a sip. “Wow,” he says. “That must have been a shock. I can’t even imagine.” He eyes John as he goes around the coffee table to sit down on the sofa beside Sherlock, an arm settled casually around his back. “The whole marriage bit must have been a surprise, too.”

“You could say,” John says, his own voice turning wry. “One of the first things out of his mouth was to ask if someone had put a wedding band on him as a joke.” 

Lestrade winces. “Ouch,” he says, taking another sip of his tea. “I guess that must have been a clue that something was amiss.” He surveys them as Sherlock glances at John, unspoken apology for his unwitting thoughtlessness on his face. John shakes his head minutely and Lestrade doesn’t miss any of it. “Seems like you’ve been put in the picture by now,” he says, nodding at John’s arm around Sherlock’s back. “So, was that…” He stops and reconsiders his choice of words. “Was that something you had already wanted back in January 2015?” he asks instead. “Because otherwise, I really can’t imagine discovering a history like that.” 

Sherlock nods and puts a hand on John’s knee, silently trying to reassure him yet again. “I don’t know that the me of January 2015 might have put it into those precise terms, but yes, certainly. I woke up still feeling unhappy that John had gone back to Mary. It was a shock discovering the marriage, but the greater feeling was disappointment over how much I’ve missed.” 

Lestrade’s eyes are shrewd. “A fairly steep learning curve there, I’d imagine,” he says, probing. “It seems you’re catching up, though, given…” He nods at them. 

Sherlock feels a touch embarrassed by this candour. “Starting to,” he says, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. 

“Oh, come on,” Lestrade scoffs. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to threaten the two of you with public indecency charges? There aren’t many secrets between the three of us on _that_ account. I certainly know what you _used_ to get up to, at any rate, and if it’s started again, then all I can say is how glad I am for you – for you both,” he adds, his eyes going to John. “Can’t have been easy for you, mate,” he says, as astute as ever. 

Sherlock spares a moment to wonder how he ever thought Lestrade so thick. He’s remarkably, acutely perceptive, in fact. He looks at John, who nods. “Up until a couple of days ago, I don’t know that I’ve ever been through anything harder,” he says, trying to smile and rather failing. “I mean, just wondering if he still wanted that, and even knowing that he did, the thought of starting over from scratch was almost overwhelming. Although it’s been exciting, too. Not many couples can live all of their firsts twice. I’ve been lucky that way, I guess.” 

There’s a slight strain to his voice and Sherlock marvels inwardly at how gracious John still is over this. He resolves to try yet again to make it up to John the instant Lestrade is gone, undress him here in the sitting room and put his mouth to every single part of him, including his arse. John appeared to like that tremendously when he tried it yesterday morning, in what ended up being a prelude to his first time being inside John. He would do anything to bridge the gap of their missing years, of the person John is still missing in him. 

When he tunes in again, John and Lestrade are chatting about the brain injury itself, a subject Sherlock finds surprisingly dull given that it’s his own brain. The injury was not permanent and now that he’s been declared recovered, Sherlock doesn’t want to think about it any more. He refills everyone’s tea and sips at his. Lestrade turns his attention to Sherlock. 

“So,” he says. “I’m not asking because I need the help per se, though it’s always welcome, of course – but more because I wondered if you were eager to get back into working again?” 

Sherlock frowns a little. “You have a case for us?” 

“I do, and it might not be a terribly complicated one,” Lestrade says, making as though to reassure him. “It’s not why I came tonight. I just wanted to see you both. But I thought I’d offer it in case you were looking. You’re welcome, if you like, but we should be able to solve this one without you if you’re still recovering and want to sit this one out.” 

Sherlock leans forward, interested despite himself. “What is it?” 

“There’s the hook,” John tells Lestrade, smiling. He rubs Sherlock’s back. “Better give us the details, then.” 

Lestrade smiles. “All right, then… we’ve got a dead woman, looks to be murder, but she was completely alone at the time as far as we can tell. She was in her house and her house shows no signs of having been broken into or anything like that. Cause of death is unclear, but there was a lot of blood around her head. We thought it must be blunt-force trauma but Rita’s not so sure.” 

“Rita?” Sherlock repeats blankly. 

“Oh – Molly’s replacement at Bart’s,” Lestrade tells him swiftly. “Molly went on maternity leave and decided not to come back after. I still miss her – she was one of the best pathologists I’ve ever worked with, but we’ve all been so glad to see her settled and happy that it’s hard to grudge her the break. Besides, she’s got her hands full with twin two-year-olds. Better her than me, is all I can say. Anyway, what do you think?” 

Sherlock looks at John, who shrugs.

“It’s your call, love,” he says quietly. 

“Do you want to go?” Sherlock asks, lowering his own voice. 

“It’s entirely up to you,” John tells him firmly. “If you want to go, then I want to go.” 

Sherlock holds his gaze for a long moment, then turns back to Lestrade and says, “Sure. We’ll come. Where and when?” 

Lestrade gives them the address, which John jots down on his phone. Lestrade downs the rest of his tea, holds out his mug for a refill, and says, “Enough of that, then. Tell me: what else do you need filling in on? Any funny stories we should tell him, John?” 

The visit becomes fun then, everyone relaxing a little, and Lestrade hugs him again later, when he leaves, Sherlock repeating that they’ll come to the crime scene. It feels almost like normal, only better than normal used to be. 

*** 

The crime scene is in Lauriston Gardens, ironically the same area where his first crime scene with John was. The house is much smaller, though, a storey-and-a-half but better taken care of. The dead woman is Anna Cranston, aged fifty-two. Her cats have been given to a no-kill shelter but are very much in evidence in terms of fur. Sherlock tries not to sneeze as he examines the kitchen. The cats’ bowls are labelled with their names, and there is a small pet bed embossed with the name _Louie_ as well. All evidence suggests that Cranston was a very typical solitary cat lady, albeit a happy enough one. There are stacks of books sitting beside comfortable chairs in the sitting room and on the kitchen table, the makings of good food in the cupboards. A large shelf of dvds lines the wall above the television, and there is a bag of unfinished knitting sitting beside the chair she clearly sat in the most frequently. 

They visit the morgue and Sherlock meets Rita, who explains that the wound thought to have caused Cranston’s death may have been too light to provoke an actual death. 

Sherlock listens without interrupting, then asks, “Is there any sign of what caused it?” 

“No,” Rita tells him. She is in her mid-thirties, a brisk, no-nonsense sort who exudes competence in a way that Molly never quite managed to, yet Molly was actually quite astute and good at her job, Sherlock always knew. It was one of the reasons he preferred her lab to the other city morgues. “There was some cat hair in the wound, but no trace fibres of any other substances, nothing to suggest a weapon or anything that might have caused it. From the shape of the wound, she could have just fallen. We’re running a little behind, though, and not all of the results from the autopsy are in yet. I’ll keep you posted.” 

“Do that,” Sherlock says, and they leave. 

“What do you think?” John asks, as they return to the crime scene in a taxi. “Blunt force trauma, though possibly not hard enough trauma to have resulted in her death. Rita even said she might have just fallen. Is there any evidence to suggest that this was, in fact, a murder?” 

“No,” Sherlock says, but he is distracted by something. “What were the names of her cats?” 

“Her cats?” John repeats. “Er, I’m not sure.” 

The taxi stops five minutes later and they pay and get out. Sherlock strides back into the house, John hard on his heels. He examines the cat bowls and asks Lestrade without preamble, “Who is Louie?” 

Lestrade stares at him, squinting. “What?” 

Sherlock bends to point at the cat bowls. “These are labelled ‘Felicia’ and ‘Mittens’,” he pronounces. He points at the pet bed. “Who, then, is Louie?” 

Lestrade looks blank. He shouts out instructions to his underlings, who scramble into action, then looks back at Sherlock with admiration. “I swear, I’m glad I’m retiring,” he says with heartfelt sincerity. “How do I still miss these things?” 

Sherlock smiles. “Because you’re an idiot,” he says, meaning it fondly, and Lestrade and John both laugh. “Have you spoken to the neighbour yet?” 

Cranston has only one neighbour, as her house is at the end of the street, but so far the neighbour has been out – or avoiding them, as John pointed out. Lestrade shakes his head. “No, he’s still out or not answering.” 

“What’s his name?” Sherlock asks. 

“Er, Brian. Brian Levine,” Lestrade says, consulting his notes. 

“Come on,” Sherlock says to John, and they head next door. Sherlock rings the bell, then bangs on the front door. They listen very closely. 

“Did you hear – ” John asks under his breath, and Sherlock shushes him, nodding. 

“We know you’re there, Levine!” he calls through the door. “We’re with the police. Open up. We just have a question or two. You’re not in trouble, though it does look a bit suspicious if you keep avoiding us. Why not just come out and have a civil discussion? We’re not going to just go away and leave you alone.” 

There is silence from the other side. 

Sherlock bangs again. “We could do this the hard way and kick down your door instead,” he calls. “I’m here with Captain John Watson of the – ”

“All right, all right, just a moment!” A male voice calls agitatedly back. “No need for any of that, I’m coming!” 

They exchange looks and John smirks. “Nice touch, using me like that,” he teases. 

Sherlock shrugs, smiling. “It’s true.”

The front door opens then, revealing a man in his sixties peering at them over a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. “What’s all this, then?” he asks, looking distinctly ruffled – but also, Sherlock notes, somewhat shifty. 

“Why didn’t you answer when the police came?” he asks, skipping all preamble. 

Levine eyes him. “Who are you, then, if not the police?” he wants to know. 

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes. This is my partner, John Watson. Answer the question,” Sherlock says. 

Levine looks cagey. “Wasn’t home before,” he says vaguely. “Don’t know anything about it.” 

John lifts his hand, interrupting. “Are you home alone, Mr Levine?” 

“Course I am,” Levine says instantly. “What’s it to you?” 

His belligerence makes him sound guiltier than ever. John glances at Sherlock, then calls, “Louie! Louie? Come here, boy!” 

There is a yip and the scrabbling of claws on a hard-wood floor behind a closed door, and Levine looks stricken. “Interesting,” Sherlock says coolly. “Why have you got Anna Cranston’s dog?” 

The rest of the case is easy, thanks to John having thought to call the dog. When Rita calls with the final results of the autopsy – an aneurism, causing the fall that bumped Cranston’s head but did not actually kill her – they let Levine off with dire warnings about cooperating with the police and not blocking investigations in the future. As it turned out, Levine had heard Louie barking to be let in from out in the back of the house. When no one had let him in, Levine surreptitiously kidnapped the dog – or, as it turns out, rescued him. In the end, they allow him to keep Louie, who appears to be happy enough and well-treated. Levine has stocked up on dog food and bought some supplies. Louie is very pleased to have his bed back, however. Sherlock does not have the heart to force the dog into a shelter when a proper home is already in place. His major thought is of John’s brilliance. The mystery itself was not all that mysterious – or, in fact, interesting, after all, and he finds himself very content to take John and go home when it’s all done and dusted. 

*** 

The sun is shining into his parents’ back garden, the snow drops and crocuses in bloom. John is off with Sherlock’s father, giving a (completely unqualified, not that it matters) opinion about the guttering, about which Sherlock’s father certainly knows more, but he makes a great point of consulting his son-in-law’s opinion on nearly everything. As if an army doctor knows anything about guttering! Sherlock is amused but keeps it to himself as John sends him a look of patient, very-slight exasperation mixed with fondness and heaves himself out of his deck chair to go off with his father-in-law. 

Sherlock’s mother pours him another cup of tea. “I’ve said it before, so many times, but of course you won’t remember so I’ll say it again: you’ve found an absolute gem in that man, Sherlock. We love him to bits, you know. He’s like another son to us.” 

Sherlock strokes the soft head of the tiny dog sleeping in his lap and says, “I know. I can see that. And he is.” 

His mother smiles gently. “So: you’re catching up, then, are you? I can see that there’s affection between you again…”

She’s probing lightly, and Sherlock does not deny her a proper answer. “I’m beginning to,” he says, looking off into the distance, squinting a little against the sun, which is just beginning its descent in the western sky. “The closer I get to him, the farther I see I still have to go.”

His mother studies him, her eyes as sharply perceptive as ever. “But you’ve made a start,” she says, checking. “You’ve begun your marriage again properly, have you?” 

She’s asking about the physical side, Sherlock knows. “We’re lovers again, Mother,” he says, simply, still speaking to the distance. “I’m trying to be his, at any rate. I still have so much distance to cover, to fill in six years of missing history. I’m still trying to become who I was. I feel as though anything else I do is a waste of time, is taking away from that. I owe him those six years. He’ll never get them back, I know, but it just makes me feel all the more as though I owe him every minute of life time I have left.” His mother is silent, and he turns his head to look at her. “Does that sound ridiculously sentimental? It must, I suppose, but – ” He stops, waiting for her reaction. 

He’s a bit startled to see tears in her eyes. “Oh, Sherlock,” she says, and reaches over to put a hand on his wrist, not disturbing the dog in his lap. “You _are_ getting there. Before, I would say that your clear first priority was John. Everything else became secondary. And now, I understand completely. Feeling this way. So maybe you should do exactly that. That man was the reason you got out of bed every morning, before. Your entire galaxy revolved around him, as his did around you. You still worked and all of that, but if the choice ever came up between the case work and John, you always chose John. He was injured on a case once, you know. You don’t remember now, but someone tried to shoot him and succeeded in just barely grazing his thigh. The bullet only skimmed him, don’t look like that! He lost a bit of blood, though, and he told us later that you were absolutely frantic. The suspect got away on foot and you let him go because the only thing that mattered to you was getting your beloved John to a hospital, and then you didn’t leave his side until he was ready to go home. It took the police four more days to catch the man without you, but you wouldn’t budge from the hospital.” 

Sherlock smiles, hearing this. “Good,” he says. He reaches for his tea, careful not to move too much – the weight of the sleeping puppy is rather precious and he would hate to disturb him – and drinks it in thoughtful silence. “We had a case yesterday, with Lestrade and his team. And the truth is, Mother… I think I’ve lost interest. Perhaps it’s only temporary, but this entire thing has restructured my priorities rather severely. Discovering that I have a marriage that I don’t even remember, to the only man I’ve ever loved, ever could have loved… it’s profoundly dismaying to think of how much time I’ve lost. How many memories that only John has of us, that he is alone in having. I hate that. It makes me want even more to do nothing but build new ones with him, to help replace some of what he’s lost. I feel as though I’ll never be able to make it up to him.” 

His mother looks at him appraisingly and nods. “What do you plan to do, then?” she asks curiously. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I haven’t discussed this with John yet, but… I think I’d like to retire. I know I’m rather young for it, but thanks to Grandfather’s trust, I don’t need the work for money. We could sell Baker Street and get a whopping sum for it, anyway. We could move out to the country and if John gets bored, he could start a clinic or something. I could help him, answer the phone or something. I don’t care.” 

“If _John_ gets bored?” his mother repeats. “What about you, Sherlock?” 

He shakes his head. “All I want is him,” he repeats. “Nothing else even matters any more.” 

His mother studies him for a long moment, then nods slowly, smiling. “Then there you are,” she says softly. “That’s what you need to do. Be with your John. We none of us know how long we have in this life. Don’t waste any more of your precious time with him, then.” 

Sherlock looks back at her, the setting sun making her eyes brilliantly blue. Somehow her benediction makes the plan he’s been cautiously constructing in his head for the past few days seem not only plausible, but entirely possible. “I think you’re right,” he says. 

*** 

The fact that John doesn’t reject the notion in complete incredulity when Sherlock brings it up a few days later tells him immediately that it’s definitely a possibility. He fully expected John to raise a lot of arguments. The fact that he doesn’t makes Sherlock wonder if it was something John actually wanted and would never have said. He waited for what felt like a good moment to bring it up.

They woke in each other’s arms, bodies already moving together in semi-conscious need, wakening before their minds and seeking. Their movements shifted, becoming more deliberate, mouths finding one another’s. Morning sex, Sherlock has discovered, is its own thing. Sometimes they’re freer in the mornings. Less is discussed, things are baser, more instinctive. John had reached for the lubricant, fingers probing, and Sherlock had nodded at John’s questioning nodded, curling his leg around John’s waist to give him better access. It always feels so good when John touches him that way that Sherlock loses more and more of his inhibitions, the pleasure of it drowning out his embarrassment over the sounds he makes, the pleas for more. He’d lain there, writhing against John, exhaling loudly, rhythmically, then shifted onto John, his cheeks flushed and hot. “Can we try it this way?” he’d asked, his voice coming out in the low register that never fails to bump John’s libido to the next level of arousal. He was straddling John’s waist, his meaning clear, and John had groaned. 

“Fuck – yes, by all means!” His hands were hungry on Sherlock’s sides and arse and legs, stroking whatever he could. “Just like this?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock had breathed. It felt audacious, his entire body on display, lowering himself onto John, his own erection outrageously hard. He’d felt John quivering, his legs moving, his own erection skewering Sherlock in ways that shouldn’t have felt as good as it did. And he’d ridden John, leaning back onto John’s raised knees for support, both of them making quite a lot of sound, and for once Sherlock hadn’t tried to stop it, unable to, particularly when he got so close that he couldn’t control it any more and John had taken him by the hips and pumped upward into him, both of them moaning loudly, a flush spread all down Sherlock’s chest. He’d grabbed at himself and jerked hard, too far gone to care any more, and John had cursed and said his name, lust streaming from every part of his voice, and he’d come then, just as Sherlock was. Sherlock had felt himself clamping around John’s erupting penis, his body preoccupied with shooting out his own release absolutely everywhere, or so it seemed at the time. 

He’d been so spent after that John had gently tumbled him off and gone in search of a flannel, bringing it back to bed and cleaning them both off with such gentleness in his hands that Sherlock had brought up the subject of his retirement, unable to hold off any longer. John was wiping off his chest and Sherlock had put his hand over John’s, bending forward to kiss him for a long, long time. John threw the flannel away and concentrated on getting as many of his limbs around or woven in amongst Sherlock’s as possible, and Sherlock had asked at last. 

They’ve been talking about it for a little while now, and John raises no objections whatsoever to the idea. He asks a few questions, but they’re small ones. 

“Besides, Lestrade is retiring, anyway,” Sherlock points out. “I don’t even know the new ones. And this seems more important. _Is_ more important,” he corrects himself. 

John touches his face, winding a curl around his finger. “More important than crime-solving?” he repeats, searching Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock nods, not taking it back. “Much more,” he says firmly. “Besides which, I owe you six years.” 

“You owe me nothing,” John says fiercely. “Nothing whatsoever. And – ”

He stops. “Yes?” Sherlock prompts, a bit anxiously. 

John hesitates. “I don’t think that the old you would have ever said that. About crime work coming second to anything. Well – maybe that’s not true. Maybe you would have. I suppose when you had to choose, you always did prioritise me above it, but still. You’re sure you want to give it up entirely?” 

“Completely,” Sherlock tells him honestly. “I only want this. I was bored the other day. I found myself wishing I were just at home with you.” 

John touches Sherlock’s lower lip with his thumb. “And you wouldn’t change your mind, get tired of it. Get tired of being out in the country with only me to entertain you.” 

“‘Only you’,” Sherlock repeats. “That’s the entire point, John. You’re all I want. From now on in. You’re my only priority.” 

“Not your only priority,” John corrects, but his voice softens. “There’s your parents, for one thing…” 

“You know what I mean.” Sherlock is unmoving. “We can live quite easily for the rest of our days on my trust alone, never mind the sale of Baker Street.” 

“Very true,” John admits. He bends forward and kisses Sherlock again, as though trying to taste the strength of his intention there. Evidently he finds it, because after a few minutes he pulls back and whispers, “Okay.” 

Sherlock’s heart soars. “Yes?” 

“Yeah.” John clears his throat. “Let’s do that, then. Let’s sell the house and move to the country. I’ll start looking for properties and we’ll see if there’s anything in particular that we like.” 

For a moment Sherlock feels so overwhelmed that he can hardly breathe. He pulls John flush to himself and holds him fiercely, unable to muster speech without risking a serious emotional collapse. John holds on just as tightly, and when they finally part much later, Sherlock notices that John’s eyes are wet. “John…”

John shakes his head, not denying or trying to hide it. “Do we really get this?” he asks. “Do we really get a fairy tale ending, despite – all this?” 

“I think that you deserve it, even if you don’t think it’s me personally who owes you,” Sherlock says, and John does not argue this. His body is pliant and soft against Sherlock’s, one hundred percent trusting, at ease, flesh against flesh, and Sherlock has succeeded in allowing himself to relax just as much into John, to trust John that much. (Infinitely, he thinks, but putting it into tangible, physical terms isn’t always as easy.) 

John nods after awhile. “I want that, then,” he says, looking into Sherlock’s eyes. There are no barricades in his, nothing between them. “If you’re sure, then yes. I want that.” 

“I’m sure,” Sherlock tells him, and means it with all of his being. 

*** 

They tell people gradually. John starts looking at properties for sale immediately, throwing himself into the search with a fervour Sherlock has never seen in him before. When Sherlock questions this one day, a little bemused at John’s apparent eagerness to leave Baker Street behind, John looks a little abashed. Still looking at the laptop screen, he says, “I suppose it’s stupid, and too possessive, but… the thought of having you all to myself – no crime scenes to call you away, no clinic for me, nothing and no one between us and all the time left to us to enjoy it – it sounds like paradise, Sherlock. Once I might have thought that we’d need more than that, but now I’m not so sure. Not with having lost that time. I feel the same way as you do, I suppose. That all I want is to rebuild it, and make the most of all the years we do still have.” 

Sherlock smiles down at him and inserts himself into John’s lap, lowering his face to kiss him for a long minute. “Good,” he says after. “Because I just put the house on the market ten minutes ago. I just came to tell you.” 

Lestrade’s retirement party is ten days later, and by then the house is sold. It was snapped up two days after they put it on the market. Lestrade throws a magnificent party, and generously tells everyone that it’s not just for himself, but also for the two people who have helped him the most – “Besides you, of course, Donovan – ” he says, to Donovan’s mock outrage from the floor to the left of the chair he’s standing on – in all of his career. “These two have done more for London’s crime scene than any unit that’s ever served on the Met’s force, and I’m not sure the city won’t fall to pieces without them, but God knows they deserve their retirement as much as I do. I’m not sure Sherlock won’t be terrorising some hapless village in the Cotswolds or wherever you end up, but John will keep you out of trouble, at least when he’s not helping create it.” This gets them a knowing eye and a wry smile. Lestrade lifts his glass of champagne. “To my lifelong friends and colleagues, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.” 

People cheer and clap and clink their glasses together. Sherlock finds himself and John surrounded by well-wishers and forced to clink other people’s glasses several times before he can finally turn to John, who not only clinks his glass but kisses him in front of everyone, and people cheer and guffaw at this, too. The laughter is good-natured, though, which is another new thing. People seem to genuinely like him now and Sherlock finds himself surprised by how mutual it seems to be. 

When it’s over, they both hug Lestrade and Donovan and Molly and the other hangers-on, then go out to flag down a cab. It’s April now and the air has turned warm, trees and gardens beginning to blossom. A cab slows at the kerb and they get in. “I have something to tell you,” John says, once they’re inside. 

“That was nice,” Sherlock says, meaning the party. “I had fun. What do you have to tell me?” 

John takes out his phone and opens the email tab. “I had an email today. It wasn’t on the market, but I thought I’d make an inquiry anyway… so I emailed the estate agency and they put me in touch with the owners and it turns out they’re actually willing to sell, if we don’t mind their price… I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and made an offer, but it hasn’t been filed yet. I’m waiting for your reaction first.” 

“An offer,” Sherlock repeats. “John – where is it?” 

John swallows. “It’s – it’s in Sussex, actually,” he says. “It’s the cottage where we went for our honeymoon.” 

Sherlock suddenly understand why John is talking about this so carefully; his own throat gets a little tight just thinking of it. “Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Get it for us. Please.” 

“Do you want to know how much they’re asking?” John asks, cautioning him. 

“I don’t care. Can we afford it?” 

“Yes, though it’s a little high – ”

“I don’t care. Get it. You know how much we’re getting for the house. We could live past two hundred on that alone.” Sherlock reaches for John’s hand. “Take me back to this magical place you’ve talked about. I want to see it.”

John nods, swallowing again, and types something quickly on his phone. “There,” he says after. “I’ve told them to put the offer in. Now all we have to do is see if they accept it. It’s a private sale, so we shouldn’t have any competition.” 

They don’t. The offer is accepted immediately, the owners seemingly overjoyed to have got as much as they did for it, and Sherlock and John start packing up the house. Sherlock’s parents come over to help, making it all go much faster. The days speed by until it’s their last night in the house. The owners are keeping most of the furniture, so they’ve had the sitting room furniture packed up and sent over, as well as the bed. They’re in John’s old room tonight, having sold the bed with the house. Their graduate student tenant has moved in with his girlfriend and the house is silent around them. 

“We’ve had so many memories here,” John says, his hand stroking down over Sherlock’s bare back as they lie together. He doesn’t mention Sherlock’s missing years. “Some better than others.” 

Sherlock thinks of the night of the confrontation between John and Mary, and further back, to after his fall from the roof of St. Bart’s. He thinks of John, alone in the sitting room downstairs, trying to come to terms with his death, and shudders. “But more good than bad on the whole,” he says. 

John presses a kiss into his hair. “Definitely. That goes without saying. I’ll miss this house. It’s been more of a home to me than any other place I’ve ever lived, and I love it. But we’re starting a new chapter tomorrow, and I can’t wait.” 

“Me neither,” Sherlock tells him, meaning it. 

“No regrets?” John asks. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Of course not. I’m excited. I feel as though it’s the start of the holidays.” 

John smiles at him in the dark. “It is, love.” 

*** 

In the morning, Sherlock waits until John has gone down with the truck, lingering after for a moment. He’s never been one for sentimentalism, but this house is special. He thinks of Mrs Hudson with a pang, thinks of leaving her memory behind here – both the ones he has and those terribly important ones which he’s lost. He goes to the wall and touches the bullet marks. The new owners are young and energetic. They’ll spackle up the holes and repaper the walls, in all likelihood. Their chairs are gone, already packed up for the trip southeast. The floor is bare, too, all of their things packed away. It’s just a house, Sherlock says to himself, but the words are a bit hollow. He kneels in the middle of the floor and thinks, This is it. This is the last chance to remember while we’re still here, somewhere familiar. He tries and tries, but the memories remain firmly locked away. Eventually Sherlock opens his eyes and gets to his feet. There’s no point lingering any longer; John is waiting downstairs. He turns and goes down the stairs for the last time. 

*** 

The house is on a winding road in the hills called Wisteria Lane. They take possession of it on the twenty-sixth of April, a day that will later be forever marked in Sherlock’s memory. Sherlock comments that he didn’t know how hilly Sussex could be. John smiles and tells him that he said that last time, too. They’re driving their new (used) car, the one Sherlock’s father pointed out it would be useful to have out in the country. The movers are half a mile behind them. John is driving, so that Sherlock can see the scenery, he says. When Sherlock asks, he admits that he drove when they came here for their honeymoon, too. 

The houses are spread out and isolated, and when they reach the top of the gentle slope winding up from the village below, John turns left in front of the last house. It is indeed a cottage, but not as small as that might sound, Sherlock thinks. There are two storeys and it stretches back a little. The stone face of the house is covered in ivy trailing charmingly over it, the slate roof slanting steeply down to meet it. “It’s all renovated inside,” John tells him. “Wait until you see it all.” 

He unlocks the door with the keys found under the appointed stone and leads Sherlock inside. Sherlock’s immediate impression is one of space and light and timelessness. His eye spots new fixtures and old-fashioned styling woven together in seamless harmony and he approves instantly. 

The movers are driving up. “I’ll deal with them,” John tells him. “They’re only dropping the pod off, anyway. Go on and explore; I’ll come and find you in a minute or two.” 

Sherlock agrees and wanders through the main floor, taking note of this and that. At the moment, though, he’s more drawn to the outdoors. He finds a pair of French doors leading out into the back and goes outside. Beyond his general curiosity to look around his new home, there is one place in particular which he has a driving need to see. Directly behind the house lies a flagged terrace with a white-painted wrought-iron set of table and chairs, a furled umbrella rising through the centre of the table. The terrace is partially shaded by a hedge of wild roses, pink and fragrant. An opening in this leads onward to a meandering lawn with enticing corners and beautiful spots tucked away, drawing the eye. The garden has grown a bit wild; the former owners must not have come here in a few weeks. Sherlock decides he rather likes the wildness. 

A little way on he finds what he is looking for. A wooden archway stands in the centre of two angled trellis walls, covered in climbing red roses. They’ve just begun to bloom, but they’re large and thorny and deeply scarlet from what he can tell. And beyond the trellis, its silvery-purple boughs dropping down on all sides, is a wisteria tree. Sherlock moves toward it as though half in a dream, fascinated by the profusion of lavender blooms, by the way the boughs move in the breeze. It compels him closer. He stops inside the archway to look, and the scent of the roses rises into the air around him. Beyond the trellises lies a garden all in lavender, clumps of various purple flowers growing all around the space beneath the wisteria: lupines, hyssop, cerinthe, lavender and a carpeting of thyme. An orange monarch butterfly has alighted on a nearby lupine, its wings opening and closing in hypnotic beauty. 

_– the monarch is drawn to the brilliance of the flowers, and does not stray far once the plant has been selected as the host –_

This line comes into Sherlock’s head out of the blue, and he thinks absentmindedly that it must be in the book on butterflies and cross-pollination that’s on his night table – 

He goes rigid. The book which he has not touched since his return from the hospital. 

Sherlock stumbles forward unsteadily and reaches for the first thing his hand touches, which happens to be a long tendril of wisteria hanging almost to the ground. Without thinking, he takes it in both hands and buries his face in the sweet-smelling blooms. Without warning, a cascade of memories breaks over him in a flood, images flashing behind his eyes like bits and pieces of scenes from a film –

_– he is there, exactly where he is now, on his feet and naked, John kneeling in front of him, his lips on Sherlock’s belly, reverently kissing his way lower. He is moaning as John’s lips move along the length of his flesh, finally closing around the head, and he has never felt so revered as in this moment –_

_– he is on his back, John’s face above him, moving inside him and they are joined, as they have been so many times before, but it’s infinitely more special this time because John is _his_ , now and forever, and they are one flesh, one need, one heart – _

_– they are rolling off the soft blanket John would bring out with them, the dirt scratching Sherlock’s bare skin, trying to crawl into one another’s bodies, kissing so hard they are barely breathing, and after the big moment has been reached yet again, John is trailing wisteria blossoms over his skin and Sherlock knows in that moment that his previous capacity for loving John has been exceeded yet again –_

Sherlock staggers down to his knees, his heart pounding. The wedding. He sees John’s face in the church, multicoloured sunlight from the stained glass windows dappling John’s morning suit in scraps of coloured light, making him even more radiant than he already is, infinitely more lovable, though that should have proven impossible. He sees the swans and hears John’s laughter, high and contagious and so wonderful he nearly disgraced them both by seizing John then and there and kissing him past the point of decency. He feels his cheek pressing warmly into John’s as they dance their first dance, his eyes closed.

He feels Mrs Hudson’s hand, all the strength gone, the bones like brittle twigs in loose skin, hears the rattle in her lungs and knows all over again that she is going to die and that there is nothing in the world he can do to stop it. Sees John across the bed from him, sustaining him with the strength of his gaze alone, so compassionate and full of love and sorrow shared that Sherlock feels he would slither to the floor and dissolve were it not there, holding him upright. He remembers Molly’s face, lit with joy as she first says the name _Pieter_ and knows for once that this is the right one, remembers feeling glad for her. 

The memories go back further, to an almost-tense moment in the kitchen at Baker Street, him holding John by the upper arms, somehow unable to make himself let go this time, unable to go on pretending that this is all just a silly game. Feels himself bending toward John, and the miracle of John’s acceptance, the warmth of his mouth of Sherlock’s, the first of thousands and thousands of kisses, including a night he’ll never forget, the most important of his life to that date. 

There are tears streaming down over his face, Sherlock realises, soaking the wisteria bough he’s still clutching to his face. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then shouts John’s name, shouts it again, louder, his voice hoarse. He staggers to his feet and hears the French doors open. 

“Sherlock!” John is running, worried. “Sherlock!” 

“John!” He should say something useful, like where he is, but for now all that comes to his lips is John’s name – John, who has been so incredibly patient, despite the shattering loss of Sherlock’s memories of everything that’s ever happened between them. Another fact blooms in his mind: John’s favourite flowers are wisterias, because of this place, because of their memories from here. He used to special-order them through one florist in particular on Marylebone for certain occasions. 

And Sherlock remembers himself now, remembers himself as the man he saw in Lestrade’s video, laughing and pulling John by the belt into a closet at NSY, chasing him up the stairs at Baker Street, only for them to stop on the landing, unable to wait to get to the top, kissing and groping, their hands wild, fighting into each other’s clothing. He remembers walking into the bathroom to find John in the bath and stripping off his clothes without ceremony and stepping into it with him, sloshing water all over the floor to John’s scolding – though that had stopped quickly enough as Sherlock cut off the protests with his mouth. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other, as though the five-year wait to get to that point had already been far too long, as though they had to make up for every second of it as frequently as possible. 

As though they’d known somehow that they would one day lose all of that. But no longer, because he _remembers_. He remembers every single, precious second of it – and every one that’s come since the coma, too. 

John bursts in through the archway, his face in a panic. “Sherlock! What – oh God, are you – ”

He’s so worried, seeing Sherlock’s tear-streaked face, his heart stamped all over his face, and Sherlock hastens to reassure him (God, he didn’t even think; of course John would worry horribly considering the coma, fearing to lose even more of what they’ve already lost). “I’ve remembered!” he cuts in, wanting to stop the fear on John’s face and hurry him on to the joy. “I came in here and I remembered everything!” 

For a moment John looks too choked to speak. “You – ”

“Everything, John,” Sherlock says urgently, going to him and gripping him by the upper arms – and remembers as he does so another time when he took hold of John this way. “I remember our honeymoon. That’s what came back first. I remember our wedding. I remember Mrs Hudson. I remember our first kiss. I remember our first time together, in bed. All of it.” 

John’s face is so wracked with emotion that for a moment Sherlock is actually afraid. Then he breaks out into a great, heaving sob and throws himself into Sherlock’s arms and Sherlock holds him as tightly as he can, his own back heaving as they weep together, so fiercely, terribly grateful to have got this back, beyond all belief. 

“I love you,” Sherlock says into John’s hair, tender and possessive and so full of fierce joy he’s nearly afraid it will split him in half. “I’m sorry I forgot. I remember everything, and you’ve been so – God, John, what you’ve been through! But I’m here again. I’m me again.” 

John’s arms somehow manage to tighten even further. “You never left,” he says, his voice broken. “You were there all along. We just got there down two separate paths.” He pulls away to look deeply into Sherlock’s eyes, then takes his face and they kiss and kiss and kiss, more wildly than they’ve done since the coma, because Sherlock is both parts of himself now: the confident, laughing first version, and the trembling, uncertain, yet deeply yearning second one. John is right: they’ve had two firsts and both were beautiful in their own, distinct ways. 

He pulls John down to the creeping thyme and they lie there, limbs wound together, eyes glued to one another as though unable to see anything else. The ground is very slightly damp but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but this. “It must have been the scents,” Sherlock says. “This particular combination: the roses, the lavender, the thyme, the wisteria – especially the wisteria. Suddenly I remembered something about butterflies and pollination and then I realised it’s in that book on the night table. And then the rest of it just – came, all at once. It must have been the combination of physical and emotional and scent – scent is the most primal of the senses, apparently, these were some of the most important moments in my entire life, those three weeks of being here, with you. All of that intimacy, all of that love.” 

John’s face is so beautiful it hurts, his eyes giant wells of blueness and feeling so profound Sherlock can feel it in his chest. “Our honeymoon,” he says, his voice tremulous. “It _was_ the most important time of my life, too. In our life. Sher – I can’t begin to tell you what it means to me that you remember this, that you share the memories we made right here. It was the most sensual three weeks of either of our lives. The things we did, right here under this tree, and how incredibly hard we loved each other throughout – I never, _ever_ would have told you, but nothing could ever have replaced those three weeks in particular. And I’ll admit that it was the tiniest, faintest, most distant of hopes that bringing you back here might be the last resort to bringing the memories back for you. But all the rest of it, too – I’m so glad that you remember that, for your own sake. Mrs Hudson especially.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his throat rough. “And exchanging our vows. And our first kiss. And the swans.” 

John laughs suddenly, through the tears in his eyes. “But we _did_ start over, and we did pretty damned well, I think. The new you loved me just about as much as the old you did.” 

“But as you said,” Sherlock reminds him, touching his face, “there was only ever one me. And I’ll love you to the end of our days, John.” 

John’s eyes flood again and they lie there, holding one another beneath the hanging wisteria for a long, long time after that. A bee comes to buzz around the lavender and Sherlock remembers saying during the honeymoon that he’d like to take up beekeeping in his old age. Well: perhaps forty-eight is a little younger than he meant at the time, but that’s just fine.

A little while later, John asks, “And you’re still glad we decided to retire out here?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says instantly. “It’s the best idea I’ve ever had.”

“I love you,” John says, the words tumbling out of his lips in a rush. “I think that today may be the best day of my life to date, or at least it’s right on par with our wedding day.” 

Sherlock agrees. He props himself up on one elbow and looks down into John’s familiar, beautiful, beloved face. “The bed is still in the pod, I assume.”

John smiles, understanding immediately. “It is, but I could go find that blanket. It’s – ”

“On the shelf in the closet in the back hall,” Sherlock interrupts. “I remember. I’ll get it.” 

“No. I’m coming with you. I’m not letting you out of my sight for a moment,” John says. He gets up and pulls Sherlock to his feet. This turns into another long embrace, knee-weakening in its passion, and Sherlock thinks that he can feel the plants and the butterflies and the bees accepting them there, welcoming them, particularly the tree. 

It remembers. 

*

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for 'The Wisteria Tree' written by SilentAuror](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8460997) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)
  * [Cover Art for "The Wisteria Tree" by Silentauror](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8570596) by [predictably_unpredictable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/predictably_unpredictable/pseuds/predictably_unpredictable)




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